


Leaving isn't what I came here for.

by barthelme



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Happy Ending, Light Angst, Light BDSM, M/M, Mysterious Armie, Phone Sex, Praise Kink, Sensual Waffles, Sexting, Slow Burn Blowjobs, Starfished Adonis, Wedding Planner Timmy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-01-01 01:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18326330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme
Summary: Timmy is a full-time wedding planner and occasional Airbnb host. Armie is a renter who oversleeps because he's too busy being naked and huge in Timmy's glorious bed. And then, real life comes into play and they try to navigate a long distance relationship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm still working on "Everlasting love" and there should be an update this week. But, [sheisraging](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheisraging/pseuds/sheisraging)  
> put the image of Armie spread like a starfish in a bed while Timmy says, 'Holy cow,' or 'Gee willikers' from the doorway into my head and I am weak. Sorry. 
> 
> This fic is done and each part just needs to be edited, so updates will likely be once a week. Or more. Who knows!

Timmy is not sure if he should poke him and, if so, where exactly he should poke him. There are a lot of places he would _like_ to poke him, but he's fairly certain waking a renter by jabbing at their ass with a firm finger and then explaining, "You didn't check out on time. And I needed to see if your ass jiggled as much as I thought it might," would be a sure way to get a bad review. Not a good way to ensure a quick fuck. Life, unfortunately, does not mimic porn. 

Timmy clears his throat, hoping that might stir the stranger, but no luck. The man is still spread, face down and naked, over almost the entirety of the king size bed and, really, that's just not fair on so many levels. Timmy isn't short; he doesn't own a stepladder and rarely has to look up at people to talk to them. But he would definitely have to crane his neck to make eye contact with this guy. Wouldn't mind being put in a position where he has to look up at him, bend his neck back and blink. Wouldn't mind because the guy is the perfect mix of thin ankles, sculpted calves, and thick thighs. Tapered waist, broad shoulders, and biceps that look like they might be the size of Timmy's face when flexed. 

Timmy licks his lips. Whispers, "Holy cow." Holds a cough in his throat. Swallows. 

Maybe he should make breakfast. 

_____

 _It all makes sense now,_ Timmy thinks as he whisks the eggs in a glass bowl. The guy had e-mailed extensively about the bed. Multiple e-mails ensuring the bed was actually a king size bed, not a queen, not a ' _fucking full size_ ', but an actual king size bed. He gets it now. He understands why the guy e-mailed so many times. Timmy closes his eyes and pictures how the toes of each foot reached the corners of the bed. Toes bigger than walnut shells. Attached to giant feet (and Timmy isn't even going to _touch_ that topic), narrowing into delicate ankles and, jesus, how did those ankles support that frame? 

So, the whole _Three Little Bears_ -esque e-mails make sense, but this actual situation makes no sense. Timmy was supposed to come home to an empty apartment. The guy-- _I should really get better at remembering the names of people renting my apartment. Especially if they are naked and gorgeous_ \--was supposed to be gone hours ago. Timmy was supposed to come home to an empty apartment that was not quite as clean as he left it on Thursday night. He's never had a problem with messy renters and the guy had good reviews (which is why Timmy had overlooked the obsessive e-mails about the bed) so Timmy was expecting to do a quick sweep of the house. Wipe down the counters, clean the bathroom. Wash the sheets. 

Fuck, the sheets. Timmy opens his eyes and stares at the frothy eggs. The sheets that were underneath the guy's--for lack of a better term--starfished body. Timmy tosses the whisk into the sink, hoping the clatter is loud enough to wake the renter. He pauses for a moment; silence. Remembers the hair on the backs of his thighs, thick and blond. So thick. No wonder the guy didn't need a comforter.

Jesus, he didn't even realize the comforter was missing because the sheets. Timmy might never wash them. He turns on the burner and puts a pan over the flame. Adds a tab of butter and waits for it to melt. 

Timmy is not going to say he's jealous of the sheets, but he's a bit--

Like, just sorta--

Yeah, he's jealous of the sheets. Because those thighs had been spread in a "V" and Timmy hadn't _looked_ because that would be crossing so many lines (that apparently aren't crossed when simply thinking about that glorious ass), but he can _imagine_ what was at the point. And maybe he lets his imagine run a little wild. If his actual life has to be so tame, at least his imagination can have fun. He doesn't stand a chance with this guy in real life, so he might as well fantasize about being between those thighs, the hair on his inner thighs tickling Timmy's cheek. Look up, up, up at him and--

Fuck, where was he? 

"Holy shit who the fuck are you?" 

Timmy turns (and he likes to think he turns very quickly, but apparently his reflexes are not as sharp as they should be) just in time to see the renter quickly cover his nooks and crannies that had just been pressed into the sheets. Normally, Timmy likes to avoid awkward situations. Likes to avoid anything that might keep him up one night, cheeks red and mind repeating, "You are so fucking stupid," over and over. 

He will likely lose sleep over this whole scenario, but once he gets past reminding himself how stupid he is, at least he'll have masturbation material for the next decade. 

"Timmy," he says. Tries to keep his eyes on the guy's face. Maybe fakes a quick blink so he can lower his eyes enough to see if the hair is just as thick on his chest and if he grooms at--

Oh, god, it's not even fair. It looks like the body hair equivalent of 'natural makeup.' Probably takes him way too much time (and maybe money? God bless whoever gets the task of grooming this man's chest and nether regions) to look as if he is naturally this perfect. 

Timmy tightens his grip on the spatula in his hand. Reaches for the bowl of eggs. "I, ugh, live here." _You, ugh, live here._ Timmy rolls his eyes. "You were supposed to be gone like three hours ago." 

It takes a lot of willpower, so much inner strength, but Timmy turns back to the pan. Pours the eggs in. 

"No, it's only--oh, fuck. _Fuck._ I'm so sorry, I can be out in just--"

Timmy quickly says, "I'm making enough for two." Looks over his shoulder and says, "I'd be a shitty host if I let you leave hungry."

This time, he's quick enough to catch a glimpse of that glorious, pokeable ass. 

It does, in fact, jiggle. 

_____

Clothed, Armie (Timmy may have overcooked the eggs while pulling up the rental confirmation as Armie was getting dressed) is almost more intimidating. In a t-shirt and gym shorts, he looks like he'd be nice to lean against while watching a movie. Like he'd be the type to sit in an odd position just to ensure you were comfortable. To make sure your neck wasn't in a weird position when you rest your head on his chest. 

Which is almost too broad for his t-shirt, but Timmy isn't complaining. 

"I don't want to say this is your fault," Armie says, "but, your bed is fucking ridiculous. I have not slept that well in," he twirls his fork for a second before stabbing a piece of egg. Dips it in ketchup. "I don't know. Ever."

Timmy smiles and ducks his head. Fruitlessly tries to tuck his hair behind his ear, only to have it fall back across his forehead. "I could tell. You looked pretty comfortable." He takes a piece of bacon and bites it in half. "It's fitting; I was referring to you as Papa Bear to my friends because of all of the bed questions," he says, referring to the not one, not two, not even three, but four e-mails regarding bed questions and confirmations. 

"Papa Bear?" 

Timmy stops chewing. Pushes his food to his cheek and nods. "You know, like the three bears. Trying out all the beds and--"

"You mean Goldilocks."

Timmy furrows his brows and continues chewing. "No, the story with the bears who--"

"Yeah, _Goldilocks and the Three Bears._ Goldilocks is the one who tries all the beds until she finds the one that's 'juuuust right,' and falls asleep until the bears come home." He grins, and his canines looks like they would feel so good against Timmy's neck. "In this case, you'd be there bear."

"I'm hardly a bear," Timmy blurts out before he can stop himself. He shoves the remainder of the bacon in his mouth and chews, hard. _You are an idiot. You should just not talk. Or be around people. Or breathe. Or--_

"Yeah, you're not even much of a cub," Armie quips. (Teases? Jokes? Flirts? Fuck, Timmy doesn't know how to read any of this. He's fairly certain this is just a very vivid wet dream.)

Timmy can feel Armie's eyes on him, but he keeps his head lowered. Chews until his food is basically liquid, trying to avoid the need to speak. He swallows. Wishes he had something witty to respond with. Maybe, if it wasn't still technically the morning and they were talking over a drink, Timmy might be able to muster up the courage to say, "A bit of a pup, really," and hope his lingo was correct. Maybe not even care if it was wrong. Maybe bank on Armie thinking the mistake is cute, endearing. 

He shoves a few pieces of egg into his mouth and slowly chews. He's awful at this. Not that there is any _this_ happening. The guy is just making conversation. Timmy basically forced him to have breakfast with him. Forced him to stop packing and come eat while it was still warm. Insisted that he didn't mind, that it was fine. No, he wouldn't charge him a late fee, that's ridiculous. 

But if _this_ was happening, Timmy would be failing. It's exactly why he always ends up going home alone or with some guy that he didn't even notice until he's a few drinks into the night. Why all of his previous relationships grew out of friendships (and usually ended with the phrase, "I just think we were better as friends," even though there is no intent to go back to being just friends.) 

The eggs need salt and Timmy stands up to get it. Is just a few steps away from the dining table when Armie says, "I was just teasing, I--"

"--No, I know," Timmy says. "I need salt. I--"

"I don't want you to think I'm like judging you or whatever."

The salt shaker feels mostly empty, but Timmy brings it back with the pepper anyways. Sets it on the table before sliding back into his chair. "I didn't think you were," he says, even though he's pretty sure Armie was. Honestly wouldn't mind if he continued to tease him so long as Armie was talking. "So, were you in town for business?" 

Armie is quiet, so Timmy looks up. They share a brief look and Armie smiles, seemingly satisfied that Timmy isn't upset. "No, not business. I mean, a bit of work, but mainly personal. It's a long story," he explains. There's no indication that he wants to tell this story, which makes Timmy more curious. He reminds himself that he doesn't know this guy, shouldn't have met this guy, and that it is none of his business. He watches Timmy salt his eggs, then reaches across the table to take it from his hands. Eyes the pepper that sits unused. Asks, "Not a fan of pepper?"

Timmy shakes his head. Shrugs. "Not really, no. But they're supposed to be kept together. Table etiquette and all."

_Table etiquette and---you can just stop talking anytime now._

Armie raises an eyebrow. "You always follow the rules?" Sets the salt down next to the pepper. 

"Most of the time." 

Timmy doesn't read too much into the brush of Armie's foot along his calf. He's just crossing his legs. The table is small and Armie likely doesn't have enough leg room. "Good. I like people who follow ~~my~~ the rules."

Timmy swallows and quickly shovels some eggs into his mouth. He's hearing things now, because he could have sworn Armie said "my" instead of "the" but that is just not possible. Armie doesn't have rules, Timmy is just projecting his needs into this situation. Armie doesn't have rules and he's is going to leave in a bit and Timmy will do the laundry, text Saoirse, go to a bar tonight, and then bring home some guy that sober Timmy would never look at twice.

"Where do you go on weekends? Your place is only available on weekends." 

"You checked?" Timmy asks without answering the question. He'd rather not answer this question. Not when Armie looks like he does something amazing for a living, like take at-risk youth hiking in the mountains or underwater welding and construction.

Armie points back at the bedroom. Sets the salt down. "That bed? Is amazing. I would fly across the country on a weekly basis to sleep in it." 

Timmy smiles. "Make sure to add that to your review." 

"Right along with the nice detail about the complimentary breakfast made by the cute landlord." 

"Not cute," Timmy says like a twitch, a reflex. 

"Handsome?"

Timmy finishes his eggs and reaches for Armie's plate. "You're not getting a discount; you already paid." 

"I'd pay extra for another night in that bed." 

Timmy puts the dishes in the sink. Leans against the counter. "It's not available tonight." 

Of course Armie follows him. "Not even if I play my cards right?" 

Not sure what he's getting at, Timmy shrugs.

Armie steps forward. Pokes a finger into Timmy's side and says, "Nothing phases you, huh? You're like a wooden Indian."

Timmy wrinkles his nose and pushes away from the counter. Steps around Armie and grabs his phone off the counter; checks for e-mails he knows he doesn't have. "That's extremely offensive." 

He can feel Armie behind him. It feels like when he's walking into the building late at night and he thinks there's someone behind him. Too proud to look, but still unnerved. His spine is pulsing and he has the same feeling he does as he tries to unlock the lobby door. The feeling that everything is moving too slowly, but he doesn't want to rush. Doesn't want to seem scared. 

Wants to either sprint away or bend over the counter. Give in to whatever this is or isn't. 

"Sorry, I was just teasing. You're just very stoic for a guy who has seen my junk."

Timmy turns around and, sure enough, Armie has moved in behind him. He has to bend his neck to look up. Doesn't flinch when Armie's hand presses, light, barely there, not enough, never enough, against Timmy's hip. Says, "No, the phrase 'wooden Indian' is really awful. You shouldn't say it." Blinks when Armie grins down at him. Squeezes his hip. "Also, I didn't see your junk. You covered it." 

He takes a step back and is a bit surprised, extremely let down, when Armie doesn't take a step forward. Doesn't press him against the counter. Lets his hand fall to his side, and Timmy feels cold. Wants that giant hand back on him, but it's not a request he can make. Not a request he should make. 

"Well, you saw me in bed, then. I'm sure that didn't leave much to--"

"--I didn't _look_ ," Timmy says, even though, yeah. He looked. Long and hard. Basically memorized every curve and let his mind fill in what he couldn't see. It was like connect the dots, except with abs and a cock. He blushes. Feels bad about it, but not awful. The guy did overstay his visit and, really, who sleeps naked in a stranger's bed? Of course Timmy looked. 

Armie's expression stalls. 

There's a moment, a long moment, where Timmy thinks he should say something. Admit to looking. Maybe even ask a question, like, 'Did you want me to look?' And then, maybe Armie would take that step forward. Maybe he would put a hand on his neck, use that anchor to turn Timmy around and push him down over the counter. To close in on him and press against him, to lean down and whisper, "This is how I want you," in his ear. 

Instead, Timmy pockets his phone and says, "I have to do laundry." It sounds an awful lot like, 'I need you to leave,' so Timmy isn't that surprised when Armie shrugs and brushes by him. Collects his things from the bedroom and thanks him for breakfast. 

Leaves. 

When the door clicks shut, Timmy tiptoes to it and looks through the peephole. Wants Armie to be waiting. Waiting for Timmy to open the door and say, "Okay, I looked."

But it's too late and Armie is gone. 

"You're dumb," Timmy says. Rolls his eyes because he knows he never stood a chance. Life really doesn't mimic porn.

_____

Timmy does laundry. Towels first, then clothes. He does wash the sheets that Armie had been starfished across, but only after taking a quick nap on them. They smell faintly of sweat. A bit of cologne and deodorant. Pine needles. 

But he does wash them. 

He texts Saorise, but she's busy. It's fine. If he was really that desperate, he would have slept with the DJ at the wedding. 

At night, after he's made the bed and stripped down to his boxers, he spreads himself across the mattress. Tries to get his toes to touch the corners like Armie's had, but he can't quite reach. Feels his muscles pull in all directions, strains to be wide open. Available. Stretched liked this, open and wide, he closes his eyes and thinks about being tied like this. Waiting and impatient. Sore from the stretch and starved for any touch, any word, any acknowledgement. 

_Fuck, I'm lonely,_ he reminds himself as his cock hardens. He tries to ignore it, but who is he kidding? He reaches down to touch himself, imagines his hand is bigger--so big--and mouths the words, "I like people who follow my rules," to the empty room.


	2. Chapter 2

It's pushing into winter, so Timmy doesn't have as many weekends away. Wedding planning (and thank _god_ he didn't tell Armie that was why he is gone so many weekends. He's used to the Jennifer Lopez jokes from his friends, but he wouldn't have been able to take it from Armie. Wouldn't have been able to stomach it.) is a full time job, though, so even when he's not at an actual wedding, he's planning. Calling photographers, haggling with venues. Telling brides that while ice sculptures are great in theory (they're not), they add unneeded stress to their big day. What with with the transportation and the melting and the hideousness. 

He's not expecting any e-mails about the apartment, so when he gets one on Monday while working on a couple's color scheme, he checks it immediately.

>   
>  **From: Armand Hammer [hammerandarm@gmail.com]  
> ** To: Timmy Chalamet [tc1995@gmail.com]  
>  Subject: Weekend Availability 
> 
> Hi Timmy,
> 
> I'll be in your neck of the woods next weekend; can Goldilocks sleep in that bed?
> 
> Thanks, 
> 
> Armie  
> 

  
Timmy rolls his eyes. After Armie left, he'd double-checked on Goldilocks. Armie had been right.

Anyways, he hadn't been expecting any e-mails, but especially not an e-mail from Armie. Figured that chance--if there had been one--flew out the window when Timmy had said--he grimaces--"I have to do laundry." 

Timmy sighs, covers his mouth with the base of his palm. He puts his phone face down on the table and goes back to comparing shades of red. He's leaning towards blush. 

_____

It's Wednesday and Saoirse looks like a cat on Timmy's bed. 

"You have his number, you know," she points out. She's curled on her side, head resting in the crook of her arm. "Text him." 

Timmy rolls on his stomach. Presses his face into his pillow. Breathes in and out, forced to do so slowly. The pillows are relatively new and he's still in the stage of feeling like he's falling into a cloud every time he crawls into bed. 

He never should have told Saoirse. Of course she would tell him to text Armie. She'd tell him to text Armie because she doesn't get what it's like to be rejected or--even worse--used. She goes home with people who approach her, with people who look like they stepped out of magazine. 

She goes home with people who are like Armie.

He turns his head and glares. "Yeah, I'll just text him. What should I say? 'Hey, sorry I didn't e-mail you and you've probably found another place to stay, but I'd really like it if you'd rub your naked body all over my bed again.'" 

She grins and a piece of her hair falls in her face so Timmy reaches over to brush it back. She nips at his hand as it retreats. "I mean, what do you have to lose?" 

"Dignity," he responds. Thinks about it. "A clean renter." 

"There are other renters," she reminds him. "You've never had a problem finding--"

He pushes up on his hands and knees. Back onto his haunches. "No, not like this."

"Oh, so you have a habit of objectifying your renters?" 

Timmy opens his mouth. Closes it. Glares again, but harder this time. "I am not objectifying him. If anything I want him to objectify me. No, like literally use me as his--"

"Oh my _god_ ," Saoirse says. She yanks a pillow over her head and screams into the fabric. Pulls it back to say, "You are so gross." 

Timmy laughs and moves to straddle her thighs. Wrestles for the pillow and continues, "Like I said, he can use me like a ragdoll and--"

She screams, louder, and Timmy doesn't want another noise complaint, so he stops. Leans down and kisses her forehead. Rolls to the side and folds into her body. She huffs out a giggle. Says, "You should really just text him."

Timmy breathes in her perfume, her deodorant. Peonies. "We need to go to the liquor store." 

_____

>   
>  **From: Timmy Chalamet [tc1995@gmail.com]  
> ** To: Armand Hammer [hammerandarm@gmail.com]  
>  From: Armand Hammer [hammerandarm@gmail.com]  
>  Subject: Re: Weekend Availability 
> 
> Hey Armie, 
> 
> Thanks for the e-mail. I'm glad you liked your stay, but the room is not available this weekend. My apologies on the delay getting back to you. I'm sure you've found another place to suit your needs. 
> 
> Have a nice trip, 
> 
> Timmy
> 
> -
> 
> **From: Armand Hammer [hammerandarm@gmail.com]  
> ** To: Timmy Chalamet [tc1995@gmail.com]  
>  Subject: Re: Re: Weekend Availability 
> 
> I'm aware you'll be there. Wondering if we could make a special arrangement. Just this once? Are you going to make me beg?
> 
> Armie
> 
> -
> 
> **From: Timmy Chalamet [tc1995@gmail.com]  
>  To: Armand Hammer [hammerandarm@gmail.com]  
>  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Weekend Availability**
> 
> Hey Armie, 
> 
> I've attached the rates for renting the guest bedroom. The bed is only a queen, though, so I'm not sure that will work for your needs.
> 
> Thanks, 
> 
> Timmy

_____

Saoirse's chin digs into the dip between his shoulder and neck. She sets her wine glass down next to his laptop and says, "You're fucking stupid," before trying to reach over him and get at the keyboard. "He clearly wants to fuck you so--"

"He clearly just wants a giant bed and--"

Okay, it does seem like the guy might want to fuck him. Timmy isn't that dumb, but he doesn't get why the guy wants to fuck him. 

_Or, maybe he doesn't want to fuck you. Maybe he's just being a jerk. Making it seem like he wants to fuck and then when I finally admit that I want that to, he's going to laugh at me. He definitely seems like the type who would laugh at me. Doesn't he?_ Timmy holds Saoirse back with one arm. Closes the laptop with his free hand, then reaches for her wine and finishes it in one gulp. He slides his tongue over his teeth; wishes she liked white wine. 

He doesn't trust why the guy would want to fuck him. His mind flickers back to thick thighs and big hands. The taper of his waist and the concave line of his back, leading down to what was quite literally the best ass Timmy has ever seen. And, not to discredit all the other asses he's seen because those were fine, but there's a reason wrestlers have to make weight. There's a reason they don't let just _anyone_ run the Boston Marathon. There's always someone like Armie who will win, who will be a head above, who will make you wonder why you even tried. 

(And, bending reality for a moment and assuming Timmy _does_ try, who's to say Armie isn't like the others? The guys Timmy struggles to talk to but somehow ends up following home, the guys who don't ask if he wants a drink, just push him towards a couch, the bedroom, the floor. Who won't kiss and don't even bother undressing all the way. Use cheap lube and try to convince Timmy they're clean, they swear to God they were just tested and they're clean and "don't you want me to fill you up with my cum?" Words that started as playful but would get more forceful the longer Timmy resisted. Words that would eventually be reflected in heavy slaps across his cheek or ass, slaps that shocked him and brought tears to his eyes, but he'd try to shake it off. Remind himself, "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

Correction: the guys Timmy used to follow home in hopes of finding something he was looking for, but realizing he doesn't really know what he wants anymore.)

Timmy wishes they'd bought more than two bottles. 

"I don't even know this guy, okay? Even if he _does_ want to fuck me, I don't know anything about him."

"Seems like you know some pretty intimate details," she remarks. Gives up the battle and takes her wine glass to the kitchen for a refill. "How did you describe his thighs? Like a shag carpet you want to get a rug burn on?"

Timmy drinks too much when he's around Saoirse. Timmy talks too much when she's around. Over the years, she's lulled him into a false sense of comfort. 

"Hey, do you want to see the hideous dresses my latest bride is thinking for her--"

Saoirse rolls her eyes and says, "No, I want to work on your ragdoll plan. Has he responded?" 

Timmy looks at his closed laptop. Sighs and grabs his phone. Says, "There isn't a plan, okay?"

>   
>  **From: Armand Hammer [hammerandarm@gmail.com]  
> ** To: Timmy Chalamet [tc1995@gmail.com]  
>  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Weekend Availability 
> 
> If you're not interested, just say so.  
>  But, I have a feeling you are.
> 
> Armie

  
Timmy quickly shoves his phone back in his pocket. Stands up and says, "No, he hasn't. I'm going to run and get some beer. Do you want anything?"

_____

Timmy wakes up with a hangover and a text. It's Thursday and he has to go look at flowers in three hours. 

ARMAND HAMMER WITH THE BOOTY: _did i scare you off or did you go to bed?_

"Oh, fuck me," Timmy breathes out. He sits up and starts scrolling to the top of the messages. Messages he doesn't remember sending until he sees them and holy shit, he really needs to stop drinking so much. Or at least drinking so much during the week when he has the ability to talk to people like Armie fucking Hammer. 

It all comes back to him, but in reverse. And horrifically. By the time he gets to the beginning of the correspondence (oh my god, can it even be called that? Is this workplace harassment? No, Armie isn't his employee. And he was clearly the instigator. _Clearly._ ), Timmy doesn't want to die. No, he wants to sink into the mattress and just disappear. Not exist. 

He breathes in, out. Changes Armie's contact name to a sensible "Armie" then tosses his phone to the side. Goes back to sleep. 

_____

Timmy is waiting outside the flower shop when he gets the text. 

Armie: _apologies--didn't mean to make you uncomfortable._

He takes a sip of his latte and bites the inner corner of his cheek. The coffee is cooling quickly (or maybe his client is just late, again.) He can't bring himself to read every message, but he scrolls to the top of their interactions. Skims. Blushes and, from time to time, squints because did Armie really say that? _Did I really say that?_

He starts from the beginning.

Timmy: _What makes you think I'm interested?_

Armie: _you saw me naked and then made me breakfast. you're interested._

Timmy: _No I came home and you weren't gone and wouldn't wake up so I made breakfast to pass the time_  
Timmy: _You just happened to be naked during this_

Armie: _alright sorry i bothered you then_

Timmy: _I didn't say I wasn't interested though._  
Timmy: _VERY INTERESTED MUCHO INTERESTED_

Armie: _muy interesado_  
Armie: _but solid effort there_

Timmy: _SOrry that was my friend_  
Timmy: _I am interested though_  
Timmy: _Are you?_

Timmy turns his phone face down against his thigh. "Are you?" he mocks. Looks down the sidewalk. Still no client. He should text her, but first--

Armie: _i had to jerk off at the airport_  
Armie: _that's how itnerested i was_  
Armie: _and am_

Timmy: _Then why didn't you give me a sign?_

Armie: _i called you cute_  
Armie: _and i thought i was pretty obvious in the kitchen_  
Armie: _but you basically kciked me out_

Timmy: _I did not!_

Armie: _you did, but whatever. my ego cna take the hit_  
Armie: _but i much rather would have had you jerk me off in your kitchen than have to do it myself while listening to see something say something repeating in th ebackground_  
Armie: _next time i'll just have to be bossier_  
Armie: _you still there?_

Timmy: _Sorry my friend was leaving_  
Timmy: _...I'd like that_

Armie: _yeah?_  
Armie: _thought you might_  
Armie: _tell me what else you'd like_  
Armie: _timmy?_

Timmy: _I feel stupid_

Armie: _literally nothing you say could sound stupid_  
Armie: _i just told you i jerked off at an airport_  
Armie: _do i also need to tell you that i thought about you the entire flight_

Timmy: _You did not_

Armie: _yeah i did_  
Armie: _kept thinking about pushing your hair out of your face so i can see those eyes when i fuck you_  
Armie: _do you like having your hair pulled?_

Timmy: _Yeah_

Armie: _see? already not sounding stupid_  
Armie: _tell me what else you like_  
Armie: _timmy?_

Timmy: _I just feel really dumb because you're not like the guys I normally hook up with_  
Timmy: _And I don't really understand why you're interested so I'm waiting for a punchline at this point_

Armie: _who do you normally hook up with_  
Armie: _wait do you do this a lot?_  
Armie: _fuck renters?_

Timmy: _NO_  
Timmy: _People aren't really lining up to fuck me_

Armie: _yeah they probably are you just tell them you need to do laundry and scare them off_  
Armie: _don't put yourself down_

Timmy: _I'm not putting myself down I'm just saying that I don't really attract guys like you_

Timmy hears the sound of heels approaching and looks up. Wrong person. Checks the time and pulls up the confirmation e-mail. He's in the right place at the right time. It's tiring dealing with people who think his time isn't as valuable as theirs. People who think he's not worth an easy, "Running late! See you soon!" text. He closes the e-mail and goes back to his phone.

Armie: _sorry to burst your negativity bubble but you are attracting a guy like me_  
Armie: _i'm multiple timezones away and still trying to get in your pants_

Timmy: _I guess_

Armie: _fuck you're annoying_  
Armie: _k i'll spell it out for you. when i first saw you i wanted to figure out the quickest path to you being naked in that amazing bed. i wanted to bend you in half and fuck you until you were begging me to stop because it's too much because begging is something i'm into do you see how easy that was to admit? and then when i was done using you i'd let you fuck my face. like full on straddle my head and fucking my mouth as hard as you want. and then i wanted to take a nap. do some snuggling._  
Armie: _and for round two we'd take a bit more time. i'd probably eat you out so i could taste myself in you--another thing i'm into--and then if you were good i'd let you ride me until you come again_  
Armie: _you are extremely attractive and i thoguht all of that before you even opened your dumb mouth_  
Armie: _but to be fair i did spend the weekend snoopign through your movie collection so i already had a bit of a boner for you._

Timmy can feel his cheeks burning and he looks around, somehow convinced a passerby can guess what he's reading. Wonders if he touched himself last night while he texted Armie, if he came thinking about Armie saying, "Can be you be good for me?" 

He dims his screen. Holds his phone a bit closer to his face. 

Timmy: _I like having my hair pulled and being held down. Choking is good and I like being talked to._

Armie: _talked to? like dirty talk or just casual chit chat haha_

Timmy: _Nothing mean._  
Timmy: _I don't like when people are mean to me._

Timmy fidgets. The bench is hard. He cracks his knuckles and then presses the heel of his hand into his chin. Cracks his neck. Blinks back the realization that he's maybe revealed more about himself to Armie than he has to anyone with just two texts. Two texts he sent while he was drunk and has no memory of actually typing. 

Armie: _i'd never even think of it._  
Armie: _no spanking then?_

Timmy: _I don't know._  
Timmy: _This is all kinda new to me_

His cheeks burn. He shouldn't have said that. He shouldn't have admitted that. He really shouldn't text when he's drunk and he definitely should text people like Armie when he's drunk. But, he can't go back and change anything. Momentarily thinks about just deleting the rest of the messages so he can get on with his day, but knows their absence won't make anything easier. He'll just spend the day pondering the void. 

Armie: _you're alone now yeah?_  
Armie: _this would be easier on skype or at least on the phone_  
Armie: _fuck i've been thinking about you constantly_  
Armie: _i was starting to think you really weren't into meand that i imagined it_  
Armie: _timmy?_  
Armie: _can i call you? i'd really like to ehar what you sound like when you cum_  
Armie: _have you been touchng yourself?_

Timmy rolls his eyes. Of course he probably had. Not that he remembers. 

Armie: _did i scare you off or did you go to bed?_  
Armie: _apologies--didn't mean to make you uncomfortable._

Timmy's thumbs hover over his phone. The sound of heels echoes down the street and he looks up. Sees the client coming. 

Timmy: _I'm sorry I fell asleep_  
Timmy: _You can call me tonight?_

"Timmy, oh my God I'm so late." 

Timmy looks up and smiles at his client. "Well, you've got a lot on your mind." Clenches his jaw as he stands up to lead her inside. 

______

Timmy gets a late lunch at the sandwich place near his apartment. He sits in the corner and reads over the texts again, this time less embarrassed. More confident when he notices the slight mistakes in Armie's texts, a hint that Armie was maybe touching himself then, too. Timmy wishes he could remember if he came. If he'd dropped his phone as he fucked up into his fist, as he clenched around an emptiness he needed filled. 

He should check his sheets when he gets home. 

He's finishing his chips when he gets the text. 

Armie: _of course_  
Armie: _are you having a good day?_  
Armie: _i was really worried i'd said something wrong._  
Armie: _you can always tell me if you don't like something okay_

He slides the back of his hand across his mouth. Wipes the grease from his hands onto his jeans. Tucks his hair behind his ears like Armie is there. Like Armie can see it. How did he say it? How did he put it? Timmy scrolls up. 

_so i can see those eyes when i fuck you_

He silently repeats the words, letting his mouth make the motions, his tongue touch his teeth, the roof of his mouth. 

Timmy: _I liked what you were saying._  
Timmy: _My day is fine_  
Timmy: _Client kept me waiting for a half hour but that's my life._

Armie: _should tell them to fuck off_

Timmy: _Can't. Would like to keep my job._

Armie: _what do you do?_  
Armie: _you shouldn't let people walk over you no matter what your job is though_

Timmy leans over to sip from his straw. Debates saying he works in event planning, which isn't a lie. 

Okay, it's a bit of a lie. Would Armie be upset if he told a bit of a lie? Would he punish him? 

_Do I want to be punished?_ Timmy looks across the small dining area. There aren't many other customers; most people who came in after him have gotten their orders to go. Remembers the size of Armie's hands--the size of Armie--and the sound of his voice. Wonders what he sounds like when he's angry. 

Decides he doesn't want to be punished. Wants to be good. 

Timmy: _I'm a wedding planner. It's my job to deal with people who think they are the center of the universe._

Armie: _really? wow. that makes a lot of sense now._  
Armie: _you organize your apartment like someone who knows a thing or two about planning_  
Armie: _toilet paper storage within a foot of the toilet... the extra shampoo and soap...the menus! those were a lifesaver_  
Armie: _im sure you're a great wedding planner and you should tell this client to fuck off if they don't realize how lucky they are_

Timmy: _Thanks? I guess?_

He bites at a hangnail on this thumb. Ignores the sharp pain of it and yanks his hand away. Quietly spits the hangnail to the side and looks at his thumb. A drop of blood forms and he wipes it on his jeans. 

Armie: _it's okay to take a compliment Timmy_  
Armie: _you're going to have to get used to compliments around me_  
Armie: _i have a lot of them lined up for you_

The capital 'T' looks harsh but important. He doesn't know how to respond. Well, he knows how he would like to respond, but can't bring himself to ask, "What kind of compliments?" Maybe doesn't want to hear them, doesn't want the realization that Armie is exactly like those guys, the ones Timmy avoids now, the ones who hold his chin too tight and tug on his lip with their thumb. Tell him, "Your mouth looks like it was made for my cock." 

Armie: _when can i call you tonight?_

Timmy: _Anytime after seven._

Armie: _k. can i persuade you to skype?_  
Armie: _we don't have to pick up where we left off but i'd like to see your face_

Timmy bites his lips and mouths, 'See those eyes when I fuck you.' Remembers how big Armie's hand was on his hip, how much space he took up in bed, how his fingers made Timmy's forks look like they came from a plastic children's set. He shakes his head. 

Timmy: _Can we just talk on the phone?_

Armie: _of course_  
Armie: _whatever you want_  
Armie: _i'll talk to you tonight Timmy_

Timmy takes the last bite of his sandwich. Balls the wrapper up and tosses it into the garbage when he leaves. He's halfway to a small church where he's supposed to talk to a strict pastor about a couple who want to write their own vows when he gets the nerve to grab his phone. Ask the question he wants answered to so he can either move on or dive in. 

Timmy: _Just so I can practice_  
Timmy: _What kind of compliments do you have lined up?_

Armie's response is almost immediate. 

Armie: _you're beautiful_  
Armie: _and you have the most kissable lips i've ever seen._  
Armie: _half of my way home i was just imagining how i'd like our first kiss to go_  
Armie: _and you make amazing scrambled eggs_

Timmy grins and runs his fingers over his lips. Stops in front of the church and doesn't even care when someone jostles him from behind and shouts, "People are walking here, Bud!" 

He checks the time. Five hours until Armie calls.


	3. Chapter 3

By six-thirty, Timmy has had two beers. He fiddles with one of the caps. Scratches his thumb against the ridges and looks over at the fridge. He shouldn't, but he wants to. 

Decides he doesn't need another beer. Collects the two bottles, the caps. A cupcake wrapper from the bakery across the street. Walks to the kitchen and tosses recycling in recycling, garbage in garbage. Checks his watch. 

Twenty-seven minutes. Yeah, he doesn't need another.

He leans against the counter, realizing that it's _at least_ twenty-seven minutes until Armie calls. Armie has a life and more than one friend, probably. He seems like the type that gets called for dinner plans multiple times a week. Who gets texts at lunch that read, "Hey, I'm in the area. Should we grab some tacos?" Probably doesn't eat sandwiches alone. 

He's probably the type who has to turn down plans because he already has shit going on. Who says he'll call after seven and ends up calling just before midnight.

But Timmy doesn't really know. For all he knows, Armie is a very wealthy serial killer who has decided Timmy is his next victim and is flying across the country to kill him tomorrow. 

Tomorrow? Fuck. Timmy hasn't cleaned the bathroom. 

He checks his watch. 

Twenty-five minutes. 

Pushes up his sleeves and heads to the cleaning closet to grab supplies. 

_____

He cleans the bathroom, the kitchen, the laundry closet. Makes his bed, vacuums the rugs, sweeps the hardwood floors. 

Ten minutes. 

Puts a bowl of lemon juice and water in the microwave and turns it on for three minutes. Lets it sit for a minute before opening up the door and scrubbing out the loosened food particles. Scrubs the door handle, the front glass. Clears the timer. 

6:58.

Timmy puts away the cleaning supplies and washes his hands. Glances at the refrigerator. He doesn't need to and he doesn't have to, so he decides it's okay to have one more beer. He cracks it open and tosses the cap in the garbage. There's a good chance he drinks it too quickly because his teeth tingle slightly and his thumbs feel numb. However, his tongue feels loose and his heart settles, just slows right down and he can almost hear himself saying, 'Oh, hey, what's up?' casually. Or maybe, 'Oh, Armie. I forgot you were calling tonight.' Possibly, 'Arnie? Oh! Ar-mie! Sorry, sorry.'

He rolls his eyes and finishes his beer.  
_____

At 7:04, Armie calls. He sounds winded when he says, "Timmy, hi," and there's a loud exhale like he's releasing the day. "I'm late."

"You're not late," Timmy says. He's cross-legged in the middle of his bed. His apartment is quiet. Dark except for the glow of his bedside lamp. He'd been debating trying to nap until Armie called. Had it in his head that he would answer the phone with a sleepy drawl; could lie, 'No, you didn't wake me up,' even though it would be obvious. Wondered if it would trick Armie into thinking Timmy hadn't been staring at his phone, waiting for his call. Waiting to hear his voice which, now, seems so loud, loud, deafening against the silence of the apartment. 

"Unlike your brides, I don't think the world revolves around me. I'm late and I'm sorry."

Timmy falls back against his pillows and hides his grin with the palm of his hand. Gives himself a second to mask a smile in his voice before saying, "The grooms are usually worse, honestly." 

"Really? That's surprising. Is it twice as bad if it's two grooms?" 

Timmy's never planned a wedding for two grooms and he tells Armie that much. Is impressed when Armie has follow-up questions and comments. That he hasn't made a joke, hasn't asked if Timmy is basically just a personal assistant, hasn't asked him if he plans on getting a real job. Because this is his real job, this is what he wants to do. He _likes_ spending months (sometimes years, but that's rare and usually doesn't end in a wedding) getting to know a couple. Making this time in their lives easier, better. Loves playing hardball with vendors. Thrives on the responsibility of taking a few colors, ideas, and childhood fantasies and turning them into something tangible. Something that will, with any luck, last a lifetime. Because maybe Timmy doesn't have that, maybe he doesn't know what he wants or needs, but at least he can create that for someone else. 

They talk and Timmy isn't sure what time it is anymore; doesn't want to pull his phone away from his ear to check. Fears doing so would take away Armie's voice for too long. 

They talk and Armie listens. Doesn't let the conversation drop even when Timmy is pretty sure he has nothing left to say. Finally, Timmy asks, "What is it you're in town for this weekend?" And the pause is long and Timmy momentarily thinks Armie will give a one word answer that will force him to bury his face in the pillows. Will bring his cheeks to a burning shade of a blush and cause his stomach to flip until he feels pleasantly ill with the sheer ridiculousness of everything. 

Armie doesn't say, 'You,' though. He sighs and answers, "A mix of personal stuff and work. Did I tell you I'm switching jobs? Well, not exactly; I'm taking a new position at the same job. Not even a promotion. I'm like moving sideways in the company," he laughs. 

"You didn't tell me that," Timmy says, trying to hide his disappointment. He has no right to be upset about this; Armie probably had these plans before he met Timmy. Reminds himself that Armie has chosen him again; that he's met Timmy, talked to Timmy, _texted_ Timmy and still wants to stay with him. 

He doesn't need to be upset. 

But he is. 

"Well, my job is pretty boring. I don't do anything fun like look at flowers or beautiful churches or--"

"Then what _do_ you look at?"

Armie chuckles. "Normally? Numbers. Lately?" His voice drops an octave and there's there's the unmistakable rustle of fabric. Timmy wonders if it's just the sound of Armie moving or, maybe, if he's adjusting himself. If Timmy's voice is enough for him to feel uncomfortable in his own clothes, just like Armie's voice is for Timmy. "I've been looking at you quite a bit. Is it embarrassing if I admit I've been looking at your Facebook?" 

"For you or me? Oh, God, please don't tell me you've looked at pictures from when I was in--"

Armie cuts him off. "I've looked at everything. Is that okay? I'd hate if you thought I was a creep." 

Timmy nods. "I don't care." Hopes he doesn't have anything terribly awkward on display. Teases, "Have you been stalking my Instagram, too?" 

"I don't have Instagram. Should I? Is that where Timothée Chalamet really cuts loose? Are you one of those Instagram models? If I look you up will there be fitness posts and pictures of you casually lifting your shirt up to show off your abs?" There's a teasing tone to his voice, but it doesn't hurt, so Timmy laughs. 

"I don't have abs. I look like a pubescent boy who eats too many Hot Pockets." 

"Stop that," Armie says and his voice has lost the teasing tone. He doesn't go on and, for the first time since Timmy answered the phone, there's an awkward pause. 

He wants to fill it, so he says, "No, it's mainly just pictures of my breakfast. Or table settings at weddings. And selfies that I usually end up deleting within minutes."

There's another beat of awkward silence, then Armie says, "You should send me a selfie," and the teasing tone is back. 

Timmy exhales. Can barely make out his dim reflection in the full length mirror in the corner. He almost says, 'I look like shit,' but he stops himself. Says, "But you can have the real thing tomorrow."

"I want the real thing right now," Armie admits.

Timmy sits up and focuses on his reflection. Blinks and tries to capture what Armie would have seen the moment he walked into the kitchen the other morning. For a moment, he catches the image of a sharp jaw and expressive eyes. Plush lips and hair that doesn't want--doesn't need--to be tamed. But then, everything settles and he sees the breakouts along his chin. Thin arms, bony knees. His eyebrows are starting to look like his grandpa's. 

"If," Timmy starts. Looks away from the mirror and swallows. Toys with the ankle of his jeans. Starts again, tries again, "What would you," fails again. 

"Hmm?" Armie hums and even that low tone, vibrating into Timmy's ears and sinking down to his own throat, sounds teasing. Playful. "What was that?" 

Timmy clears his throat and wraps his hand around his ankle. Squeezes until he can feel the pulse of his veins beating in his toes. "What would you do if you had the real thing? If I was there?"

It sounds like Armie's clicking his tongue and Timmy can basically hear his mouth forming a smile. "I like when you ask questions, Timmy." There's the sound of fabric again, the clink of a belt, and that sound alone sends Timmy's hand to his own crotch. He palms himself and closes his eyes, leans back against the pillows again. "Well, do you have anything you'd want me to do?"

Maybe too quickly, Timmy admits, "I'd let you do anything." 

"Anything?" Timmy nods, hopes his silence is enough of a reassurance for Armie. "That's a lot of trust, Timmy. You don't really know me."

"I'd like to," Timmy says. 

Armie laughs, but it sounds nice. Shy even, though Timmy doesn't know if Armie has ever been shy. "Trust me or know me?" 

"Both," he replies, and it's true. He still can't wrap his brain around this situation, but he would be stupid to let it slip by. 

"Good," Armie says. "Then, since you asked so nicely: if I had you here right now I'd have you touch yourself for me. Tonight, I'd just watch."

Timmy's skin feel hot, itchy. He scratches his neck, lets his fingers spread across his neck. "You'd just watch?"

He pictures Armie smirking, nodding. "Yep, just watching. I want to know what gets you off." There's a beat, then a mocking, "Would you prefer to just tell me?" 

Timmy closes his eyes. He has no idea what Armie's house (apartment? condo?) looks like, has no idea what his bedroom situation is. But he pictures grey linens and mirrors, dark wood. Imagines himself on those linens, naked. Armie might be standing near the foot of the bed, or maybe he'd be in a chair across the room. Fully dressed and calm. Patient. "I think I'd prefer to show you." 

"Interesting," Armie laughs. "You won't send me a simple selfie, but you're willing to show me how you'd finger yourself? How you'd open yourself for my cock?" 

Timmy opens his mouth to protest, to explain. To say, 'I didn't mean it like that,' but he did mean it like that. "Well, not right _now_ , I--"

"No? What if I said the only way you get to come tonight is if you show me?" 

Timmy's eyes dart across the room to his desk. To his laptop that's still open. His heart pounds and he wants to say, 'Then I guess I'd better show you how I'd get ready for your cock, Armie,' just as playfully as he could. Like he's the type of person who thinks anyone would want to watch that.

Thinks about how Armie would want him; would he want to watch while Timmy stretches across the covers, a coy hand moving between his legs? Or would he prefer Timmy spread open for him, on display, being able to watch his fingers stretch and pull at his hole? Would he demand Timmy speed up or slows down? Add another fingers or--

Timmy gives his cock a squeeze through his pants and says, "Then I guess I'd--"

"--Fuck," Armie interrupts. There's background noise that Timmy can't quite make out; it sounds like commotion. Movement. "Timmy, I'm really sorry."

"What?"

"Yeah, I--shit, I have to go. I have another call coming in and I swear it's really important or I wouldn't--"

Timmy nods. "Yeah, no, that's fine."

"I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" 

Timmy doesn't get a chance to answer before the line cuts off. He stares down at his phone, then at the bulge in his pants. Over at his laptop. 

"Fuck me," he whispers and throws his phone to the end of the bed.  
_____

Later, right before Timmy dozes off, he gets a text. 

Armie: _i'm really sorry about earlier_  
Armie: _there was a bit of a family emergency_  
Armie: _im so happy i get to see you tomorrow, Timmy_

_____

On Friday, Timmy wakes up early. He thinks about washing his sheets quickly or at least changing them, but then he thinks about Armie in his bed. Maybe his flight will get in before Timmy gets back and he'll want to take a nap. Will be able to smell Timmy in the bed, will spread out and soak him in, let every inch of his body touch every inch of the sheets and, through them, Timmy. 

He leaves the sheets but cleans the toilet again. Leaves a key with the front desk and tells them a friend is visiting; it's okay to let him in.

Timmy visits venues with a new client. They've met twice before and the groom insists there needs to be free parking, which leads Timmy to believe this guy doesn't really want to be married. That he likes the idea of marriage, but not the reality. But, whatever. It's not his wedding, so he shows them a few venues that have free parking, even if the guests will have to bring walking shoes. Hopes they don't have any elderly relatives. 

Afterwards, he's heading home when Armie calls. 

"Bad news. Missed my flight because of work."

Timmy stops in the middle of the sidewalk and waves off a guy whose shoulder bumps into his. Who flips Timmy off and calls him a fucking asshole. "Oh," Timmy says. He bites his lip and rolls his eyes.

"I got on a flight that lands tomorrow morning. Around ten your time. Unless you don't want me to come." 

"I want you to come," Timmy says. "I just--" _You just what?_ "No, that's fine." There's silence and Timmy weaves between people to be closer to a building. He repeats, mainly for himself, "That's fine," but his throat feels thick. 

Armie sighs. "I'm really sorry. I just had this--"

"I said it's fine," Timmy says, but it's too loud. A woman passing by glances at him and shakes her head. "Listen, I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow." 

He hangs up and walks into the first coffee shop he comes to. Orders a latte and sits in a corner. 

Armie: _are you mad?_  
Armie: _i had a meeting, Timmy_  
Armie: _or is this about last night?_

Timmy: _I'm not mad._

Armie: _would you tell me if you were?_

Timmy: _I don't know._  
Timmy: _Probably not._

Armie: _that's dumb. when you're mad at someone you should just tell them._  
Armie: _even if it's stupid_

Timmy: _Okay, I'm a little mad at you._  
Timmy: _I was just looking forward to tonight._

Armie: _me too._  
Armie: _i can call you tonight?_

Timmy: _I don't know. Maybe._

Armie: _we could skype later and i can make up for last night_

Timmy looks around the coffee shop. It's pretty quiet; a girl on a laptop, a couple talking and sharing a muffin. 

Timmy: _Can you not? I'm in public._

Armie: _good. that's another thing i'm into._

Timmy tries not to laugh, but he can't help it. 

Armie: _well if i don't hear from you tonight i'll assume you're out having fun without me._  
Armie: _i'll call you when i land?_

Timmy: _Sounds good._

Timmy finishes his drink and texts Saoirse. Assures her that he won't drink too much tonight and he won't go home with just anyone.  
_____

Timmy drinks too much and brings home the biggest guy he can find. Tall with a bit of weight around his middle that Timmy decides is cute. That he uses to balance himself as he takes off his shoes, asks, "Do you need something to drink? Water? Beer?"

But he doesn't wait for an answer; walks to the bedroom and pulls off his shirt. Unbuttons his pants and throws himself down on the bed. It's unmade and one of the pillows is on the floor. 

The sex is fine, even if the guy doesn't take the hint when Timmy takes his hand, presses it against his own throat. Encourages him to squeeze. "What are you doing?" the guys asks and, really, Timmy could do without all the talking. Could do without the guy's breath on the back of his neck, voice in his ears repeating, "You like that? You like that? Do--you--like--that?"

Timmy grunts and nods, but when he comes, he's only hearing, "Want to see your eyes when I fuck you." 

Afterwards, Timmy cleans up and comes back to the bedroom. Stands at the foot of the bed and watches as the guy fluffs the pillow that had been on the floor. He finds his boxers on the floor and pulls them on, explains, "Hey, I have to do laundry."

"Oh, I don't mind. I sleep like--"

"No, like the sheets and stuff. I have company coming tomorrow, so." 

He looks around and finds the guy's clothes in a pile at the end of the bend. Picks them up and tosses them near the guy's hands. "Oh, yeah. Of course," the guys says, and Timmy can tell he's pissed. Wants to explain that he can't stand the idea of someone else sleeping where Armie should be, wants to explain that it's silly, so ridiculous, really. 'See, I have this guy visiting who I don't really know, but I already feel like I want him to know everything about me, even the shitty things, and I need to make the bed nice for him. You get that, right?"

He doesn't think the guy will get that, so Timmy goes to the kitchen and wipes around the burners. 

"Can I get your number?" the guy asks as he puts his shoes on. Timmy grabs a post-it before the guy can unlock his phone; purposely makes the two look like a seven and scribbles a smiley face under the numbers. Kisses his cheek and slips the note in his back pocket. Assures him he had a good time; asks if he wants him to wait outside with him for his Uber. Is glad when they guy declines the offer and just leaves. 

Timmy locks the door and exhales. 

He stays up until three washing and drying the sheets, the comforter, the pillowcases. Has to put the comforter through the dryer three times before it's actually dried all the way through. 

When he makes his bed, he keeps everything tight, just like his grandma taught him to do. Fluffs the pillows, then takes a spare throw from the linen closet. Tries to sleep on the couch but keeps hearing, "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" Sometimes, "Bad news." Most of the time, he just hears doubt and reluctance. Wonders if Armie changed his mind and is just being polite at this point. 

He gives up on sleep a few hours after midnight. Turns on some infomercials and looks at his phone. Eventually pulls up Facebook and looks up Armie Hammer. He's not exactly surprised when he finds his profile is basically empty. The only new information Timmy gets is from his profile picture. He's at the beach, posing in front of a sandcastle with two kids. A girl and a boy who both look like Armie.

Timmy takes a few selfies and picks one he hates, but less than the others. Posts it to Instagram with the caption: "sleepless in nyc." He hopes Armie stalks his Instagram.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, remember when I said this was done and I just need to edit? Well, I'm a liar who lies and changed everything and, who knows, this might get longer. I don't know anymore.

Sometime before the sun comes up, Timmy deletes the selfie. 

Timmy: _Pretty sure Armie is married._  
Timmy: _He has kids._   
Timmy: _Aaaaand I've convinced myself he's only coming here for a pity fuck and I'm stressing out._  
Timmy: _Good Morning._

Saoirse: _STOP._  
Saoirse: _you didn't notice a ring?_

Timmy: _No._

Saoirse: _you notice everything_  
Saoirse: _he's probably not married_

Timmy: _He could have taken it off to pick up some idiot while on a work trip._  
Timmy: _Pretty sure that's why he hung up on me the other night. His wife or husband or whatever came home._  
Timmy: _And there was probably no work meeting yesterday._

Saoirse: _oh my god t it's way too early for this paranoia_  
Saoirse: _did you even sleep?_

Timmy: _Not really._

Saoirse: _have you had breakfast?_

Timmy: _I ate some skittles._

Saoirse: _jesus timmy_  
Saoirse: _make some breakfast, take a nap, and chill out okay_

Timmy checks Armie's Facebook one more time. Stares at the picture of the kids. Reminds himself that he's not mad at them. 

He's not even mad at Armie. Not really. 

Timmy opens the fridge; he grabs eggs and bacon and lets the door fall closed. Before he can get a pan out, there's another text. 

Armie: _boarding :)_

Timmy: _~~Cool~~_  
Timmy: _~~See you soon~~_  
Timmy: _~~Does your spouse know you're flying across the country to fuck me~~_

Timmy deletes everything and puts his phone away.   
_____

Armie calls when his plane lands, just like he said he would. "Did I wake you up?" he teases and Timmy buries his face into the arm of the couch. His head hurts and his vision is hazy around the edges. 

"No," he lies. He can hear the sound of people moving on the other hand. Overheads being unlatched, luggage being pulled down. Sentence fragments and babies crying. "Did you just land?" 

"I told you I'd call when I landed, didn't I?"

Timmy nods. Smiles and pushes the throw off of his body. He'll fold it in a minute. "Usually that's just a figure of--"

"Well, usually, people aren't this excited to see someone." 

Timmy scans the apartment. The pictures are straight, the floor is clean, the dish towels are hung evenly on the stove door handle. He breathes out and says, "People are usually excited about where their plane is landing." 

"Not this excited. I want to kiss you." The thought of those words lingering in the plane, maybe making Armie's seat neighbors turn and look. Blushing, smiling. Maybe being jealous of whoever is on the other line. Being jealous of Timmy. The thought is a lot, so Timmy swallows and focuses on the corner of the coffee table. Pushes away the image of Armie kissing another person goodbye this morning. A faceless body that Timmy gives androgynous features. Thin wrists and a graceful spine. "Alright, I have to grab my bag. I'll see you soon, okay?" 

Timmy nods. "Okay." He gets up to fold the throw. All vertical lines that he carefully drapes over the back of the couch. When his phone vibrates, he assumes it's Saoirse making sure he slept and ate. It's not. 

Armie: _had a bunch of nosy ladies around but i don't think i'll be able to stop at just kissing your mouth_  
Armie: _i want my mouth on every part of you_  
Armie: _is that okay?_

Timmy showers. He washes his face, his chest, his cock. Presses a finger against his hole and wonders if Armie will be able to tell that someone else was there last night. That Timmy was on his hands and knees for someone else. Wonders if Armie will be upset, if he'll be jealous. If he'll slap him when he finds out. Ask him if he realizes he's just a slut. 

Wonders if Armie fucked someone else last night, too. If he kissed his kids goodnight. 

Timmy finishes scrubbing his body and lets the water run until it's lukewarm. 

_____

When the knock comes, Timmy jumps. He was expecting another text, a call. A simple "I'm here," so he could prepare. Instead, there's a knock and Timmy jumps and stares at the door. He puts down his coffee and walks over, sliding his socked feet on the hardwood. Looks through the peephole, expecting to see Armie staring straight back at him. Trying to peer in before the door is even open. Trying to take over. Instead, Armie's head is lowered and his bag is slung over one arm. Timmy watches for a moment. Makes him wait. Wonders what would happen if he just didn't answer the door. There's a key with the front desk, but would Armie think to ask for it? 

Armie's hair is shorter. Shaved on the sides and cropped on the top. He somehow looks even bigger, but everything shrinks a bit when Armie shifts his weight to one foot and brings a hand to his mouth. Bites at the nail on his pointer finger without ripping it. Just worries it with his teeth. Looks down the hall left, right. 

When Timmy flips the lock, Armie straightens up. Timmy opens the door and expects Armie to walk in. To close the door and drop his bag. Push Timmy into the living room, onto the couch. Maybe just onto his knees. 

Instead, Armie smiles. Grins, really. Says, "Timmy," like a greeting. But he doesn't touch. Doesn't push his way into the apartment. Hardly moves a muscle. 

( _And, fuck, his muscles,_ Timmy thinks. It was a bit easier to deal with Armie via text. Almost possible to believe he would want to fuck someone like Timmy because Armie seemed desperate for it. But in person, taking up an entire door frame and looking down at Timmy? In person, with this stupid t-shirt that looks like it may have fit Armie at some point but now? Now, the sleeves barely seem to be able to stretch over his biceps. The chest is tight and Timmy doesn't want to stare, knows he already looks stupid, but maybe Armie planned this? Maybe he wants him to stare.)

Fuck, his muscles. Fuck his muscles. Timmy blinks and looks up at Armie. Asks, "How was your flight?" while backing up and making room for Armie. 

"Good," Armie says, and Timmy is glad when he just walks in. Says, "I'm going to drop this in the bedroom," so all Timmy has to do is close the door and follow. Follow Armie through his apartment, follow him into the bedroom. Smile when Armie drops his bag and smooths a hand over the foot of the bed. "Ugh, this bed," Armie groans and for a moment, his body looks ready to collapse. To sprawl on the bed, a clothed version of Timmy's first sight of him. 

Instead, he turns and takes a step closer to Timmy. Threads his fingers through Timmy's hair, slides his fingers down to his neck. Lets his thumb press against Timmy's throat, slide up his vocal cord. Soft, but a reminder of what Timmy wants. What this all is. 

( _And that's all this is,_ Timmy reminds himself. _Sex. You don't get to be mad about what he's hiding, what he posts on Facebook. You don't get that, that is not yours. You just get fucked and if you're a good boy, you get to fuck his mouth, ride his cock._ )

Timmy looks up at Armie. Parts his lip and waits for Armie to take him. 

"You never answered me," Armie says and, for Armie, it sounds like a whisper. A request. 

"What?" Timmy asks. Licks his lips. Lets Armie lean in close, press his cheek against Timmy's. His lips don't touch Timmy, but he can _feel_ them, disrupting the slightest of fuzz on his earlobe, his neck. Timmy shivers. Closes his eyes. 

"I asked if it was okay if I put my mouth on every part of you, and you never answered me," Armie says. The texts. Timmy forgot about the texts. Had planned to come up with a response in the shower, but didn't. Already fucked up because he-- "So, is it okay?" 

Timmy nods, but it's not enough. 

"I want to hear you say it, Timmy," Armie dares him. Tightens his fingers, slightly. Presses his thumb into Timmy's flesh. "I need to know you want this." 

Timmy feels off balance, dizzy. He puts a hand on Armie's waist and swallows. Feels the pressure of Armie's thumb as he does so and wants to feel it more. Wants Armie to control his breathing, to let him know this is okay, to make this more than a fuck. "I want your mouth on me," he says. Adds, "Please," as an afterthought. Wonders if Armie likes that, if he would prefer a title. Hopes he doesn't because, even in his head, the words sounds stupid. Has never liked when guys ask for that, when guys demand that.

"You're so good," Armie says, and this time, his lips graze Timmy's earlobe. Move close to press lightly against his neck. Drag down to his collarbone where he places an open mouthed kiss. "I like it when you tell me what you want, Timmy. Can you keep doing that?" His lips move to Timmy's cheek and he teases him with light kisses up to his temple. Uses the pressure of his hand to tilt Timmy's head up, and Timmy can't help but let his mouth fall open. Silently beg for Armie. "Please?" 

"I want you to kiss me," Timmy pleads, trying to move his mouth to Armie's, but held in place by his hand. Forced to dig his fingers into the soft fabric of Armie's t-shirt while he listens to a soft chuckle burst from Armie's mouth. Timmy knows his cheeks are red, knows exactly what he looks like. He's been told enough times by strange men in club bathrooms and damp alleys. Told enough by men he brings home or follows to messy apartments. He looks like he's made for this, been waiting for this, like he deserves this. His eyebrows furrow when he feels Armie's free hand press against his cheek. Waits for it to disappear, only to come back as a slap. For his voice to respond, 'You haven't earned a kiss,' or something else that will make Timmy's eye clench and push back any thoughts of confidence or--

"God, you're beautiful," Armie whispers, and then his mouth is on Timmy's, tongue sliding against his lower lip, into his mouth. Seeking out Timmy's taste, finding it and retreating. Dipping back in and loosening his hand on Timmy's neck. Pushing both hands into Timmy's hair, pushing Timmy's hair out of his face. Pushing, pulling. 

Armie tastes like cigarettes and chocolate. Timmy had no idea he smoked and he's reminded that he doesn't know much about what Armie does or doesn't do. About who he is or what he does. But right now, he wants to live in him, live with him, but he can't have that so he kisses back. Tilts his head into one of Armie's giant hands and lets himself have this for a moment, to have Armie, to take what isn't his, what can't be his, what was never his to--

"Stop," Armie says, pulling back slightly. "Whatever you're thinking right now, just stop, okay?" 

So, he does. He stops thinking and lets Armie pull him back onto the bed, into Armie's lap. Lets Armie ruck his shirt up to his armpits and press his fingers against Timmy's ribs, slide them up to his chest. Thumb over his nipples, which makes Timmy's back arch and hips lift, makes him press his cock into Armie's abs and there's no hiding it now, if he was even trying. He should have been trying to hide how into this he is, how much Armie is doing to him with such little effort. It's the one thing he can usually control--can usually hide--but he lets it slip with Armie. Lets himself lift up onto his knees and press harder against Armie, push himself closer, suggest what he wants without asking for it. Thinks if Armie makes him ask for it, he'll just die, he'll just--

But then Armie dips his head down and kisses Timmy's sternum. Detours to the left to swipe his tongue over Timmy's nipple, soft at first, then harder when Timmy laces his hands around the back of Armie's neck. Holds him in place and tries to control his breathing. Fails miserable, but he tries. Is almost thankful when Armie stops to whisper, his breath chilling against Timmy's damp skin, "Fuck, I knew you'd have cute nipples," before soothing the cold nub with the heat of his lips. 

Timmy tries to defuse. Snorts, "You've thought about my nipples?"

And Armie guides Timmy back onto his lap, settles him against his crotch, which is hard and, fuck, so big and this is happening, this is happening. Armie pulls Timmy's shirt back down, smooths it along his sides. Says, "I've thought about everything," kisses Timmy's cheek, "But you're so much better than I thought. That sounds stupid, but," Armie shrugs. Unapologetic. 

Timmy wishes he could be unapologetic, wishes he could say, 'I've thought about you, too. I slept in your dirty sheets and lost sleep thinking about you and I can't stand that you are keeping secrets from me and I have no right to be mad and I--'

"But, it's true. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you and--"

Timmy blushes, pleads, "Stop," but buries his face against Armie's neck. 

"No," Armie says. Wraps his arms around Timmy and breathes in. "I want to know you and I want you to know me and--"

Timmy sits up straight, shakes himself from Armie's grip and effectively silences whatever bullshit Armie was about to spew. Wants to do whatever he can to stop this conversation--these lies--from filling the room. Licks his lips and says, "I want to suck your cock," before moving to his knees. _Where you belong,_ he reminds himself. Slides his hands up Armie's thighs, feels the muscle hidden underneath jeans. Thinks back to Armie spread on this bed, his thighs open, body vulnerable. Wonders how Armie can be so open, physically, while hiding everything underneath and--

"Timmy," Armie starts. Places his hands on top of Timmy's and searches for his eyes, but Timmy leans in and traces his tongue along the bulge in Armie's pants, frees his hands and moves his fingers to Armie's belt. Ignores Armie's resigned sigh. 

"You wanted me to tell you what I want and I want you to fuck my mouth," he says. Rests his forehead against Armie's abs while he works at his belt, while he fumbles to do something he should be an expert at by now, fumbles with Armie because of course he's going to mess this up and look like a--

They feel the vibration of Armie's phone at the same time and Timmy freezes, looks up as Armie says, "Fuck." Lifts his hips to slide his phone out of his pocket. Bites the corner of his lips while Timmy drops his hands to his side. 

Of course. 

Right, of course. 

Armie looks down and he doesn't have to apologize, but he does. Repeats, "Fuck," and adds, "I forgot about timezones. I thought we'd have a few--"

"No, it's fine, of course," Timmy says as he stands up. He adjust himself in his pants and turns away. Knows exactly how cold it sounds when he says, "I left a key at the front desk so you can come and go as you--"

And then Armie's up, arms wrapped around Timmy from behind. Lips pressed against his neck, then his ear. "Don't do that. You knew I had to come here for--"

"I know, Armie," Timmy says, even though he doesn't really know. He doesn't know why Armie is coming here, coming to the city, but he _really_ doesn't know why Armie is coming _here_ to his apartment. "I get it, okay? I've got shit to do today, anyways, and--" 

He stops when Armie's arms tighten around him. "If you're mad, tell me, but don't act like this," Armie whispers. "I'm going to be gone this afternoon and then, when I come back, we can talk and--"

"What's there to talk about? You want to fuck me, so you can fuck me tonight and then you can fly out on Sunday and it's _fine_. I'm not mad, I just have shit I need to do." 

Armie leans his head against Timmy's shoulder. Repeats, "We'll talk tonight." Timmy can tell Armie is keeping his hips back and he doesn't know which would be worse: feeling Armie's hard cock against his ass and knowing that Armie wants to stay but won't or feeling that Armie has gone soft already. Is ready to leave, to walk away. Can turn everything off just like that. "Is that okay?" 

Timmy nods and tries to pull away, but Armie's arms are tight. He kisses Timmy's neck, noses at his hair. 

"We don't have to do anything but talk tonight, okay? I know I've been a bit forward, but we can just talk. Get dinner, go for a walk. You can show me--"

It's sounding too much like a date, like a couple planning their evening, so Timmy cuts him off. Asks, "Don't you have to go? It's rude to be late." 

Armie laughs. "You and your rules."

"Manners," Timmy corrects. 

"Manners," Armie agrees. "I have to change," he says and he kisses Timmy's cheek once more, gives his body one more squeeze before letting go. 

Timmy goes to gather his sunglasses, wallet, phone, keys. Is checking his e-mail when Armie joins him in the kitchen. He's wearing shorts and a different t-shirt, one that's looser. It doesn't look like any sort of business casual Timmy has ever seen. He assumes this is a personal trip. Wonders what Armie possibly needs to be on time for. 

Doesn't ask, because it's not his business. 

"I can walk you out," Timmy says. "I'm leaving anyways." 

Armie hesitates for a second, but nods and walks out the door. Waits for Timmy to lock the door and pocket his keys before taking his hand. Pointedly putting his arm over the top of Timmy's, leading him to the elevator. Grip firm. He doesn't let go, traces a line over the back of Timmy's hand with his thumb. He doesn't ask any questions, doesn't reveal anything about where he's going. Doesn't say anything until they're outside, until Timmy tries to say goodbye and turn left. Armie pulls him back towards him, says, "Give me a kiss." It's more of a demand than a request and Timmy's fingertips tingle. Armie leans down a few inches. Waits. 

Timmy relents and gives him a quick peck. Tries to pull his hand away, but Armie pulls him closer, puts a hand on the small of his back. 

"No, no, no. Give me a real kiss. I don't want to spend the whole day thinking you're mad at me. I can't be distracted like that." 

"I'm not mad," Timmy says, but he's drowned out by a passerby who yells about them taking up the entire damn sidewalk. 

Armie's hand on Timmy's back tightens and he turns his head, yells back, "Hey, fuck off, Buddy!"

When he turns back, Timmy meets him halfway. Kisses him chastely, but hard. Can't help himself from smiling when he feels Armie's lips form a grin. 

When he pulls away, Armie says, "Good boy," quiet enough for just the two of them. Lets go of Timmy so he's able to turn around and walk away. Able to hide the dumb smile on his face, to hide the fact that he'll be repeating, 'Good boy,' over and over all day. 

Timmy can feel Armie watching him, but he refuses to turn around.   
_____

Saoirse's apartment is a nightmare, and Timmy says so multiple times. He says it as he loads her dishwasher and scrubs her sink. As he wipes down her counters and takes out her recycling and sweeps the floor. 

"You're the nightmare," she replies every time. When he seems to be slowing down, she says, "This is how normal people live. Now, tell me why you're going all Mr. Clean on my space." She tugs him to the couch and he easily falls on his side. Rests his head in her lap and sighs as she brushes his hair out of his face. "Operation Ragdoll is not going well," she assumes. 

It's going terribly, actually, but Timmy won't admit that. "I'm just overthinking everything," he says. Saoirse makes a noise that Timmy takes to mean, 'Like usual.' He ignores it and says, "I want him to be here because of me, but he's _not_ and it bothers me and I'm just being sensitive." 

"Well, did you ask him about the kids?" 

"No," Timmy admits. 

He can sense Saoirse lining up questions. "Are the kids a deal breaker?" 

Timmy hadn't thought of it that way. Would kids be a deal breaker? He likes kids, but he doesn't want to be a parent right now. And where the fuck did _that_ come from? He wouldn't be a parent. He'd just be the fuckbuddy of a parent. They aren't even technically friends right now, let alone anything else. The kids shouldn't be a deal breaker because there is no deal. But if they _were_ a factor? "No." 

"Okay, now what if he's married?" 

"Dealbreaker," Timmy says without a hesitation. 

"And you didn't ask him about it?"

Timmy shakes his head. Brings his thumb to his mouth and bites at the nail. Knows he needs to ask, even if he doesn't want to know. Wonders if he would have been able to forgive himself if he had sucked Armie's cock earlier and found out later that he was married. If he'd be able to brush the taste of infidelity out of his mouth, if he'd be able to clean that from his slate. "No."

Saoirse is silent for a while. Twirls Timmy's curls around her fingers. Eventually, asks, "What makes him different?" 

"Hmm?" Timmy opens his eyes. Didn't realize he'd closed them and was close to falling asleep until she brought him back with that question. "Different than what?"

She pauses her head massage for a moment to say, "You never seem to care about the guys you fuck. I thought that's all this was, and now you're," she gestures at him. "Well, I don't really know what you're doing with this guy." 

Timmy sighs. He doesn't have an answer for her. Can't put into words how he had a different feeling about Armie the moment he saw him, naked and vulnerable. Open. Even though Armie didn't know he was being watched, he seemed like he didn't care if he had eyes on him and that was something so foreign to Timmy. Something admirable and strong, something that Timmy wanted in a partner and, one day, in himself. Wants one day to be able to spread himself out like Armie does, to take up space and not apologize for it. To take up room and not regret it.

He can't put into words how it feels when Armie talks to him. When he makes demands of him without being forceful. How he makes Timmy feel like he can be shaped, be molded, be made into someone else; but, even if he isn't, Armie won't look at him as unfinished. Is maybe be willing to start again. To try again. 

"It's stupid," Timmy says. 

Saoirse spreads her fingers wide, presses hard against Timmy's scalp and he groans at the touch. Turns his head slightly, begs for a repeat. She laughs and gives in. "It's not stupid. Stupid is taking that guy home last night. You're going to tell Armie, right?" 

Timmy groans. He knows he should talk to Armie about that, too. Wonders if he can convince Saoirse to go out for a few drinks with him before he goes back to his apartment to wait for Armie. Wonders if he should waste the afternoon and early evening so he doesn't _have_ to wait for Armie. "I mean, it's not like--"

"You should tell him," she says and tugs on his curls. 

He rolls his eyes, but nods. "I know. He wants to talk tonight, anyways."

She make an approving noise and jokes, "Oh, you two are getting serious. Actual conversations and not just sexting?"

As if on cue, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He reaches for it and says, "We don't just sext," and is glad when Armie's text proves him right. Flashes the screen at Saoirse. "See?"

Armie: _i'm really glad i get to stay with you this weekend_  
Armie: _really glad you're letting me get to know you_

"Cute," she responds. "Now, I haven't done laundry in like three weeks. Do you want to stay here or come with me?"

He thinks about all the space at a laundromat, all the space he lacks at his apartment to fold clothes into perfect, categorized stacks. "Oh my god, coming with. Can I fold?" 

"So fucking weird," Saoirse says, but she nods. Pushes his head off her lap so she can stand up. "Does Armie know how weird you are? Maybe don't tell him how much you enjoy folding laundry. You'll scare him off." 

Timmy swats at her ass as she walks away. Wants to remind her that his affinity for folding laundry is one of the more normal things about him, but he stays quiet. Reads over the texts one more time before grinning and responding. 

Timmy: _I'm glad you're here._  
Timmy: _Even if you're just using me for my bed._

Armie: _shit you figured me out_

"Not at all," Timmy mutters. He pockets his phone and rolls off the couch; follows Saoirse to her bedroom and reminds her to look under the bed for socks. She's always kicking them off in the middle of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did that thing again where i accidentally delete most of what i've written, then rewrite it and change everything. so, here, have a short-ish chapter that is all talk, no action. yes, the actual fic is two chapters longer now and no, i have not learned my lesson about writing in notepad.

Timmy holds up a pair of high-waisted, floral panties. Examines them and says, "See what I don't get," grins and yanks them out of Saoirse's reach, "Is how you take home hot guys wearing these and I actually put in effort and get--"

"Those are period panties, you asshole," she laughs and finally snags the underwear. Wads them up and throws them into her underwear pile. 

"Period panties? Like which period? Victorian?" He reaches for one of her shirts and folds it in half, then quarters. Adds it to the pile of shirts in front of him before reaching for another. 

She balls up socks and tosses them into the laundry basket. "And are you really complaining about the quality of men you take home? You have Adonis flying across the country to fuck--" she basically interrupts herself with spluttering, "--wait! Not even fuck anymore. Adonis just wants to _talk_ tonight. He just wants to be in your presence and you're bitching about the quality of men you take home on a random weeknight from a shitty club?"

They're getting to the bottom of the clean clothes and Timmy turns to check on the last load in the dryer. Five minutes. "Oh, we gonna fuck," he laughs. Corrects, "I mean, if he's not married or whatever." Saoirse rolls her eyes and turns to stop the dryer early. Timmy is too quick and he yanks her back to their table. "You gotta let it completely dry unless you want creases in your--"

"Oh my god," she laughs. "I regret inviting you."

He grins. Rests his head on her shoulder. "No, you don't."

"No, I do," she says, but she wraps her arms around his waist. "I wish you saw how good you are." 

His throat tightens and he scrunches up the left side of his face. "Don't call me good," he says, remembering Armie's words this morning. His broad hand spread on Timmy's back. Good boy, good boy. 

"You _are_ though. People _like_ you, Timmy. And you bitch about the guys you bring home, but you push away the guys who seem decent." 

He stands up and stretches his arms in front of his body. "No, I don't. No decent guys--no decent, _single_ \--guys approach me." 

"They do, and then you spend the whole night talking about how awful you are or ignoring them and, you know what? People like you, but it's exhausting reassuring someone they're wonderful all the time."

Timmy points at himself. "I'm exhausting?" It's not an argument, but an actual question. He's never thought of it that way. Never realized that everything that's tiring to him might be exhausting to those around him. 

It's probably why he eats sandwiches alone. 

She takes a step closer to the dryer. It's down to a minute. "Sometimes, yeah." 

"Oh," he sinks back against the table. Bites his lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be--"

"Stop!" she laughs, but she's not really laughing. "This is what I mean. You're like a fucking sinkhole of despair sometimes." She turns and puts her hands on his cheeks. Smooshes his face. "Timmy, you are worthy of people liking you. You are hot and adorable and smart and--you can't stop me from saying it--you are a good guy and you deserve to have good things happen to you."

He pushes her away lightly. Shakes his head so his hair falls in his face; covers his eyes with his hands. "Don't _say that_ , please." 

Saoirse wraps a hand around his wrist and tries to tug it away from his face. "What? That you deserve good things? You _do_ , though, and I will--"

"No, just," his cheeks are hot, palms sweaty. Waves roll in his stomach. "Don't say I'm good. Just say I'm nice or whatever." 

She recoils. "Oh, fuck me, is this some sort of sex thing?" Fake retches. 

The dryer buzzes. "Dibs on the period panties," Timmy laughs before pushing the laundry cart over to her.

_____

Timmy doesn't mean to make a mess; it just happens. Laundry doesn't take as long as he'd like and Saoirse eventually had to go to work. Timmy spent the afternoon wandering book stores and gift shops. Walked in circles for a few blocks, picking up takeout menus to add to the collection for renters. A new Thai place opened a few blocks away and he debates asking Armie if he wants to try it out. It would be an innocuous way to possibly start a conversation; Armie has been quiet most of the day. 

_Not quiet, busy,_ Timmy reminds himself. He looks at the scene in front of him. Fabric samples to his left, books on Northeastern flora opened in his lap. A stack of printed e-mails and notes to his right. He has a difficult couple who want a March wedding, but are insisting it is "semi-outdoors" even though Timmy isn't sure what that means. As well, they want anemones incorporated into the floral arrangements. Wild anemones which don't bloom until April, sometimes May. He's been trying to convince them that a good option would be dried anemones, which would tie in with the vintage feel of their venue and her dress. 

Needless to say, they aren't sold and he's stuck trying to find a solution. 

He sighs and reaches for his phone. 

Timmy: _Thai tonight? Or will you not be back for dinner?_

Armie: _on my way now. i can pick something up_

Timmy: _I can order. You're my guest._

Armie: _nah my treat tonight. since i fucked up yesterday. thai? what do you want?_

Timmy rolls his eyes, but smiles and holds the phone to his chin for a second. He knows what he'd like, but knows what he wants even more. 

Timmy: _Order for me._

Armie: _idk what you like_

Timmy: _Yeah, you do._

Armie: _...are you being a brat on purpose?_  
Armie: _don't think you can distract me--we're actually talking tonight_  
Armie: _and if you're a brat, all we're doing is talking_  
Armie: _at least tell me how spicy you like your food._

Timmy: _medium_

Armie: _k see you in a bit, brat_

Timmy tosses his phone on the coffee table and looks around. He needs to clean up. 

____

Armie doesn't remember exactly what he orders Timmy, but he says, "Trust me, you'll like it," and winks. Unsurprisingly Timmy does. They eat on the kitchen stools, leaning over the counter. 

"When's your flight tomorrow?" 

Armie shrugs and wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Later. I have a few things to do in the morning and afternoon, and then I thought we could get an early dinner, if you want." He reaches over and casually rests his hand on Timmy's thigh. "No worries if you have other plans, though, I can always--"

"No plans," Timmy says. Shakes his head and takes another bite. Realizes how that sounds, so he says, "I mean, I have a brunch thing in the morning, but I'm free after that." He _could_ have a brunch thing. Saoirse loves mimosas. Timmy's not a fan, but he'll drink them. 

Armie squeezes his thigh, slides his hand up a bit higher. "Good. I want to take you someplace nice," he says. 

" _This_ is nice," Timmy says. Eyes his water, then the fridge. He sits up straight, leans forward a bit like he's about to stand up. "Do you want something else to drink? There's beer, wine, and I--"

Armie shakes his head and puts his fork down. "I'm good," he said, pressing lightly on Timmy's thigh. "You good?" 

Timmy swallows. Nods. "Yeah," he decides. Settles back onto his stool. They finish their dinner and Armie stands up. Reaches for Timmy's plate. "I got it," Timmy says, but Armie puts a hand on his shoulder. Pushes him down. "Seriously, I--"

"I need to do something with my hands during this," Armie smiles. 

Timmy shakes his head. "During what?" he asks. He sits down and lets Armie take his plate, his glass, his fork. 

"I said we'd talk and you clearly have some questions for me," Armie says as he walks around the island, into the kitchen. Places the dishes in the sink and starts running water. Opens the cupboard under the sink and pulls out the soap; squirts a few dollops on the sponge. "So, ask away." 

Timmy opens his mouth, about to protest. About to say they don't need to talk, that whatever this is doesn't need to be complicated by words, that he should just let the dishes go. They can move this to the bedroom. 

"I know you've been checking on my Facebook, Timmy. Unless you have a similarly named twin who would randomly end up in my friend requests," he teases.

Quickly, Timmy reminds him, "You've looked at my--"

"I didn't say there was anything wrong with it. I _am_ a bit offended you didn't send a friend request, but maybe we're not--"

"We're _friends_ ," Timmy says. But he's not entirely sure they are. He's not entirely sure what they are. "I felt silly." He watches as Armie scrubs the plates, the forks, the glasses. Blushes when Armie smirks. Can't imagine Armie feeling silly about looking at Timmy's Facebook. At his Instagram. Wonders if Armie saw the selfie he'd posted on Friday night. Saw it and didn't say anything. Or, maybe he saw it and thought less of Timmy. Maybe that's why he had 'plans' today. Why he came back with wrinkled shorts and wind burnt cheeks. 

"You don't need to feel silly. I'm glad you looked. Made me feel you might actually like me and not just tolerate me." 

Timmy puts his elbows on the counter and rests his chin on one of his hands. "I like you." It seems obvious and Timmy feels relieved that maybe Armie doesn't know. Maybe Armie doesn't realize how much Timmy likes him, how much he wants him. How much he wants this, whatever this is. Whatever this could be. 

Armie rinses the dishes and puts them in the drying rack. He turns around and searches for a towel; seems to remember a distant thought before he turns to his left and opens a drawer. A stack of folded dish towels stick out. "You're a hard person to read, sometimes," he says. Grabs the forks first and dries them. "So, what do you want to know? I'm not a millennial like you; my entire life isn't online." 

"You're more of a millennial than I am," Timmy notes. He wants to tell Armie he should have washed with warmer water; the dishes are going to spot, but he can wash them later. After Armie's flight tomorrow or maybe Monday morning. "I'm _barely_ a millennial." 

There's a questioning look on Armie's face like he wants to pull out his phone and fact check that, but then his eyebrows soften and he shrugs. He reaches for one of the plates. 

Timmy shimmies from left to right. Crosses his legs and licks his lips. When it doesn't seem like Armie is going to just tell him everything, he blurts, "Do you have kids?" 

Armie nods. The towel makes a wet squeak against the plate as he drags it in a circular motion. "Two of them. Harper is four and Ford is two. They both look a bit older because, well," he puts the plate down and gestures up and down his body. Timmy nods; he gets it. "Is that a problem?"

Timmy shakes his head, quick and sharp. "What are they--" he starts, but decides the wording is weird. Sits up and tucks his hands between his thighs. "Who are they with while you are--"

"Their mother," Armie says quickly. He grabs the other plate and dries it, quicker this time. "My ex-wife. We have joint custody and are lucky enough that we still get along." It comes easily. Not quickly like a lie, like a practiced lie, but easily like the truth. Timmy almost asks why she's an ex. Not because he wants to know gossip, but he wants to know what turns Armie off. What makes him turns his back on someone. "Lately, she's been with them a bit more. I'm hoping that changes in the next few months but, let's face it," he winks. "She's a better influence than I am. They're better off spending quality time with mom." 

Timmy laughs and stands up. He isn't sure where to move; feels trapped in his own apartment. Normally, after dinner, he'd do a load of laundry or wipe down the kitchen counters. Have a drink or three and vacuum. Instead, he asks, "So, you're bi?" and immediately feels like an idiot. Such a barely millennial thing to blurt out. "You don't have to answer that," he blushes and looks down at the counter. 

Armie has moved on to the glasses. He tucks the towel into one and twists it. Laughs. "I'm just attracted to beautiful people," he says. He dries the second glass, then sets it down. Spreads the towel out on the counter so it can air out, then quickly puts away the dishes. Asks, "Does it bother you that I'm divorced? It's completely understandable if--"

"Not at all," Timmy says. "I just," he shrugs and backs away from the island. Slides his socked feet across the floor. "I was just curious." 

"You thought I was cheating on my wife?" There's a lilt in Armie's voice and he asks, "Do I seem like the cheating type?" 

He walks out from the kitchen and stands in front of Timmy. Crosses his arms and Timmy knows it's not the time. Knows he shouldn't be scanning Armie's shoulders, his chest. Shouldn't be wanting Armie to step closer, to put a hand on Timmy's throat. To pick up where they left off. But he does. He really does. "No, I was just wondering who--"

"You were wondering who else I might be fucking," Armie smirks. He reaches out and presses a hand to Timmy's cheek. "I've been on my feet all day. If we're going to do this, can we at least lay down?"  
______

Even on his side, Armie takes up a lot of the bed. Timmy sits next to him, cross-legged. Wants to press his hands on Armie's body, the inward curve of his waist, the hill of his hip. The wall of his shoulders. Wants to mold himself against Armie, use him as a pillow, as a support. Instead, he brings his thumb to his lips and chews on the skin around his nail. 

"You know much about horses?" Timmy shakes his head; he's only ridden a horse once and it went terribly. The animal didn't listen to him and he ended up on the wrong trail. "Okay, when they introduce stallions, they'll fight one another to take control. It's rough, it's loud, it's bloody. Eventually, one backs down or flees. Being married to Liz was like that, every day, except neither of us would back down and--for a long time--we were too stubborn to flee." He laughs, and shakes his head. "It was exhausting. And I loved that about her. Hell, I married her so of course I loved that about her. But, I wasn't getting what I needed. I'm not saying I wanted to control her, not at all, I just--" he stops and sighs loudly. Reaches out and rubs his hand along Timmy's kneecap, his thigh. Slips it under his shirt and Timmy instinctively sucks in his stomach. Flinches when Armie's fingers press against the slight roll of his stomach. 

"You wanted to take care of her," Timmy fills in. 

Armie shakes his head and pulls back. Moves to sit on his knees while reaching for both of Timmy's hands. "I mean, more than that, really. I wanted to make sure she was taken care of, which sounds like the same thing--"

"No, it doesn't," Timmy says. He knows the difference and leans forward to kiss Armie's cheek. Before he can change his mind, he scoots forward so he can comfortably rest his head on Armie's shoulder. Be pulled closer, molded and shifted until Armie is cross-legged and Timmy is seated in his lap. Facing him, arms draped over Armie's shoulders and head tucked into his neck. "I like this," he whispers. 

Armie nods. Says, "I know you do." His hands slide up under Timmy's shirt again, this time toying with his spine, his shoulder blades. "I like it, too."

It would be easy to just let this be it. To nod and sink into Armie's body, to fall into the comfortable quiet surrounding them. But it's in the back of his mind. The night before, searching for someone who would feel like a presence behind him, whose hands would dwarf him and push him around. Someone who could be Armie, just for a night because Timmy wasn't sure he'd ever get Armie. 

He wants to tell him, he's _going_ to tell him, his mouth is opening and he's about to tell him when Armie interrupts him. When Armie wraps his arms around Timmy, tight, says, "Anyways, I changed my mind. I don't want to make you beg tonight." And Timmy's stomach flips. He wants to talk Armie back, wants to plead with him, wants to tell him he'll be good, that he'll be perfect, that he'll try to be what Armie needs, that he just needs to give him a chance that-- "No, we need something else tonight. Can I take your clothes off?" Armie asks, and Timmy sits back. Decides he should have something good, even if it's just for tonight.

TImmy nods and raises his hands above his head, let's Armie tug his shirt up, up, and off.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my chapter counts are like the points on whose line is it anyways.

Timmy is acutely aware of the mirror. 

Acutely aware of how Armie guides Timmy off his lap, how he stands up and crosses the room. Drags the full-length mirror closer. A mirror that Timmy bought for guests and rarely looks at himself. He stands next to the bed, shirtless. Hands folded in front of his body, covering up while feigning a comfortable casualness. Trying to project that he does this all the time, that he's used to being on display, that this is _fine_. "What are you doing?" He wants to be back on Armie's lap, back in his arms. Close enough that Armie can't examine him, can't pinpoint his flaws.

Armie answers with a hum and a smile. Sits on the edge of the bed, in front of the mirror that has been relocated a few feet from the bed. "Come here," Armie says. Reaches out to loop a finger into the waist of Timmy's pants. Pulls him forward and quickly removes the rest of his clothing. Pushes everything to the ground, leaving Timmy bare. And he's used to being naked, used to some scrutiny, but this is different. The lights are on and Armie's gaze is hard. Plus, he knows what Armie looks like, knows his flaws are seemingly nonexistent. Even what he _hasn't_ seen, he has felt and Timmy knows he doesn't compare. Knows he can't compare. 

"Perfect," Armie murmurs. Leans forward to pepper kisses along the bottom of Timmy's ribs, to drag his teeth against Timmy's belly. Leans back and pats his left knee once, twice. The fabric of his shorts looks rough and Timmy rolls his shoulders, his eyes. Imagines Armie's view behind Timmy, what he wants to see. The line of Timmy's spine, the stretch of skin over his shoulder blades. He's been told he has a nice back. Thin, but not weak. Maybe Armie's into that, or maybe it's something else. 

Maybe it's something Timmy isn't prepared for, something he wasn't expecting from Armie. Maybe, Armie isn't all that different from the others and he wants to see everything. Wants to watch how Timmy's body takes him, how his body opens up around Armie's cock. Wants to hiss around his tightness, whisper, "You just take it, don't you? Made for a cock, aren't you?" while Timmy hopes he isn't expecting an answer. Normally, Timmy just nods and closes his eyes, but he doesn't think he'll be able to do that with Armie. He doesn't _want_ to do that with Armie. 

He was hoping this would be different. 

He balances his hands on Armie's shoulders, the shoulders of his t-shirt bunching under Timmy's hands. It's soft and Timmy wonders how long he's owned the t-shirt. Wonders if he lives in soft t-shirts and shorts, flip-flops and dirty tennis shoes, even when it's brisk outside like it was this afternoon. Like it is now. Timmy briefly imagines him in a suit, in an office. In a t-shirt, Armie is touchable. Timmy can't imagine his height in a suit, his stature in a tie, in polished shoes. 

He starts to climb on Armie's lap, only to have those giant hands stop him. Cover his hip bones and push him back. "No, no, no," Armie quietly chides while guiding Timmy's body. Turning him to face the mirror, to face himself. Timmy looks to the side and lets Armie pull him back onto this thigh. He keeps his hands on Timmy's hips, his thumbs rubbing comforting lines along Timmy's skin. 

Timmy focuses on a loose sock to the left of the mirror. Reminds himself that he wanted this. That he wanted Armie to touch him, to slide one hand along his belly, up his sternum. To rest at the base of his neck while his other hand moves down to Timmy's knee. Tickles his skin. 

Timmy fits on Armie's thigh easily. Feels comfortable enough to let his arms hang loose, to lean back against Armie's chest. Not quite comfortable enough to look at their reflection, though Armie seems plenty comfortable; he hooks his chin on Timmy's shoulder, breathes, "Look at you," before sliding his palm along Timmy's bare inner thigh. Higher until his fingers nudge Timmy's balls, his soft cock. "Timmy," Armie toys with his name. Lets it hang on lips too long. "You okay?" 

Timmy nods and presses back against Armie's body. He likes the scratch of Armie's shorts along the backs of his thighs. Likes the way Armie's belt digs into his his flesh. The way Armie's hand at the base of his throat massages the skin, soft, soft, soft, then slightly tighter. Not a grip, not a threat, just a reminder. "I'm okay," Timmy replies, breathes in as Armie cups his balls, his cock. Soft, everything fits in one hand, easily, and Timmy can feel the blush creeping up his chest, his throat, his cheeks. Knows, without finding his reflection, that it just deepens as his cock starts to respond to Armie's touch. 

"You seem nervous," Armie comments before turning his face into Timmy's neck. Kissing behind his ear. "Do I make you nervous?" 

"A little," Timmy confides. 

"You don't like this?" 

Timmy closes his eyes and shifts. Armie's shorts bunch underneath him and, for a fleeting second, he wonders what that would feel like on his stomach, on his cock. If Armie would do it, if he would spank him. If he'd be playful or hard, if Timmy would be uncomfortable the next day. 

Timmy knows the answer. Knows Armie wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't go any further than Timmy asks him to. 

"I like this," Timmy says. He keeps his eyes closed, squeezes them a bit when Armie's hand on his neck tightens. 'Don't lie to me,' is his silent warning. Timmy admits, "I don't like looking at myself." 

It's more than that, but his cock is getting hard, harder when he presses against Armie again and can just barely feel the rigid line of his cock against the side of his ass. Even through the shorts, it's intimidating. It's more than a lot of things, but Armie's hand wraps loosely around Timmy's cock and gives him a few gentle strokes. It's more than, "I don't like looking at myself," but with less words. He's too old to be saying shit like, 'I don't like myself.' This isn't high school, this isn't college. No one needs to hear that.

"I like looking at you," Armie says. "I like your lips, and your jaw," he whispers, and Timmy opens his eyes. Meets Armie's eyes in the mirror, but hesitates to follow Armie's words as they travel lower. "You already know how I feel about your nipples, but I like your chest, too. I like how strong your arms look. I was surprised by that, but I love how your arms feel around me." His strokes become firmer and Timmy gasps, the friction of Armie's dry hand almost too much. But, he's thankful for the slight harshness of his touch, a distraction as Armie's words continue and Timmy starts to believe them, at least for now. Starts to feel them between his thighs, in the tips of his fingers, on his own tongue. 

When Armie continues, "And I love your pretty cock. Love how it feels in my hand. Can't wait to taste it, to see how you like my mouth," Timmy moans and lets his eyes trail down his reflection to where Armie's fist is around him. 

"I already like your mouth," Timmy says, and Armie's fingers are hard on his throat, harder suddenly, and Timmy can't help the high-pitched wheeze of his inhale, the sudden clench of his hands, one on Armie's thigh, the other on the bedspread. He expects Armie's grip to loosen, lighten up like it has every other time, but there's no relief and Timmy lets his mouth hang open. Loves the rasp of each breath, the sudden heaviness of his tongue. Wants Armie to squeeze harder, but knows he won't. Knows he's the type to want to talk about it first, and that makes Timmy's cock twitch.

No, Armie doesn't lighten up. Just tilts his head up to kiss Timmy's cheek and continues his checklist. "And your thighs, fuck Timmy. I can't wait to feel them wrapped around me while I fuck you, and I'm going to fuck you. Not tonight, maybe not tomorrow. I might make you wait for it. Can you wait? Are you able to wait for my cock until next weekend?"

Timmy nods, desperate for confirmation that Armie will be back next weekend, that he'll come back, that he'll fuck Timmy. He can be good, he can be perfect, he can do whatever Armie asks him to, he just needs him to come back. 

"I thought so," Armie says, deep and quiet, lips pressed against the side of Timmy's ear. His strokes quicken and Timmy's eyelids are drooping, but he keeps his eyes on the reflection, tries to imagine it's someone else, tries to see what Armie sees, and it isn't until Armie whispers, "Knew you'd be able to do that for me because you're such a good boy," and Timmy's coming, much quicker than he expected, shoulder blades pushing back into Armie's chest while his hips lift off Armie's thigh, fucking into his fist. While his feet tense and he lifts onto his toes, he feels his heart pounding in his temples, his tongue, the base of his throat as Armie chokes him harder, harder--

And then his hand is gone, sliding down around Timmy's chest to hold him up, to squeeze him closer while he strokes him through his orgasm. Timmy gasps for air and he can't keep his eyes open anymore, lets them close, lets his body fall limp against Armie. Wants to ask if he's really coming back next week, or if it's something you just _say_ during sex, like "I love you."

"You made a bit of a mess," Armie chuckles, and Timmy doesn't think, just opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out. Is somehow too shy to open his eyes, but more than willing to be this shameless. "Fuck, Timmy," Armie whispers, and then his fingers are on Timmy's tongue, feeding him his own come. "You're almost too much," he says, sliding two fingers into Timmy's mouth, letting him suck on them until they're clean. Repeating with his thumb before taking his hand away. 

Then, only then, does Timmy open his eyes. He finds Armie's eyes in the mirror and blinks. "Can I suck your cock?" He reaches down to cup Armie through his shorts. Feels how hard he is, knows it wouldn't take long for him to taste Armie, too. 

Armie laughs and pats the outside of Timmy's thigh. "Not tonight." He pulls Timmy's hand away and then up to his lips. Gives his knuckles a quick kiss.  
_____

In the dark, Armie takes off his clothes and Timmy tries not to strain his eyes. He rolls Timmy on his side and slides in behind him. Shifts until his cock is soft underneath Timmy's ass, until he's holding him close enough to run his hand down Timmy's belly, his thighs. At first, Timmy's skin creates trails of goosebumps along Armie's finger's path, but eventually they disappear. Soften, like the tension in his muscles. He can't recall a time when he was so relaxed. 

"Can I ask you something?" Armie asks after a few minutes of stroking Timmy's skin.

Timmy nods and shifts back into Armie's arms. 

He feels Armie's exhale against the back of his neck, the side of his face. He smells like cigarettes and toothpaste. Timmy realizes he has never seen Armie smoke and wonders if it's something he does in secret. Adds it to his list of secrets. "Why are you--" he starts, but then redirects. "Have you had a bad relationship?"

Timmy's not sure how to answer, so he shrugs. Is glad for the warm pressure of Armie's hand suddenly on his hip. Holding him down, holding him close. "I don't really have relationships," he says, which is pretty true. The few he's had have been fleeting, have been a bad idea. They haven't been bad themselves and Timmy knows what he's asking, and that has nothing to do with any relationship he's been in. 

"That's not what I asked." 

Timmy sighs and tries to explain without going into details. "Guys at clubs are just shitty. You know how it is."

"No, I don't," Armie says. "I haven't dated in years." 

"Right," Timmy concedes. 

In the dark, Armie's voice seems louder, even when he whispers. "Before, you said you didn't want me to be mean to you. Has someone hurt you before?" 

The corner of Timmy's mouth hurts from chewing on it. "Not really, no." 

"Not really or no?" Armie pushes. When moments go by and Timmy doesn't answer, he props himself up on his elbow. Pulls Timmy onto his back and looks down at him. "I need to know, Timmy," he says like he's worried about what Timmy might say. Worried that maybe he's already pushed Timmy too far, even though he's barely put a hand on him. 

"If you're worried you hurt me, you didn't," Timmy says, aware that he's still dancing around an answer. Armie blinks and waits. Puts a hand on Timmy's chest like he might try to get away and he wants him to stay. Timmy rolls his eyes and says, "I've been with guys who do things I don't like, but I'm not, like, broken or some shit, okay? I can take care of myself."

"Can you?" Armie asks, and Timmy doesn't want to get in a fight, not about this, not tonight. Not with Armie. "I mean, _do_ you? I know you can, but--"

"Can you please stop?" Timmy asks, and he tries to roll on his side, wants to press his ass back against Armie's cock, wants to change the subject. 

But Armie's strong, even when he's not trying to be. He holds Timmy down and says, "I knew we should have talked before we--"

"Jesus, Armie," Timmy hisses, rolling his eyes. "I've fucked a lot of guys, okay? Chances are, some of them are going to be shitty."

"What do you mean by a lot of guys?" 

Timmy's face feels hot. He can't decide if it's embarrassment or anger. "Like, a lot." He brings his hands to his face and covers his eyes. Digs his palms into his sockets and groans. "I didn't realize this was going to be a fucking--"

"You don't get to be mad at me for not wanting to hurt you," Armie says and he lets go of Timmy. Rolls to the opposite side of the bed and Timmy wishes everything wasn't so big. Wishes it wasn't so easy for Armie to get away. 

Timmy drops his hands to his sides and blinks up at the ceiling. Thinks about how many times he's laid in this exact position, but with a bruise across his cheek or a sore ass. How many times he hasn't slept because he can't stop repeating phrases that were whispered in his ears. Phrases that made him blush, made him cringe. 

He blinks and reaches a hand up to wipe at his eyes. Is glad when his hand comes away dry, but frustrated that every tendon and muscle in his body is tense again. Knows it's his fault and he should just talk to Armie, should open up like Armie has done for him. 

But he's not like that. He doesn't spread himself naked for everyone, at least not figuratively. Literally, maybe. "Jesus Christ," he hisses and kicks the blankets off. Gets out of bed and searches in the dark for his boxers. Pulls them on and starts towards the door. 

"Where are you going?" 

Timmy doesn't respond, just walks to the living room and grabs the throw from the couch. Pulls it over himself and lays down. 

He's embarrassed and doesn't want to face Armie, not really. Knows he's throwing a stupid tantrum, demanding attention that he isn't sure he wants, but he's still thankful when a few minutes later, Armie's standing in the doorway of the bedroom. He's wearing boxers now, too. "Come back to bed," Armie says and Timmy pulls the throw up to his chin. "Please." 

He waits a few minutes before shoving the throw to the bottom of the couch and standing up. Following Armie to bed and tucking himself against his body. Quietly admits, "I fucked someone the night before you came."

"Okay," Armie shrugs. "Did he do anything I should know about?"

Timmy shakes his head. "I don't do that anymore. Not with random guys." 

"Good," Armie says. Tightens his grip around Timmy. "From now on, please tell me if you fuck anyone else." There's an addendum. "Especially if they don't make you feel good." 

Timmy nods and closes his eyes. He feel too warm, but he burrows against Armie. They're only taking up a portion of the bed, and Timmy wishes they could somehow take up even less. "I don't want to fuck anyone else." 

Armie doesn't say anything, but Timmy hears, "Me neither." 

_____

In the morning, Timmy wakes under the weight of Armie's arm wrapped around his waist, his thigh thrown over Timmy's legs. His cheek pressed into Timmy's shoulder, head tilted up. He looks soft and Timmy wonders what it would feel like for Armie to mold under him. What it would feel like to roll him on his back and straddle his waist. Press his wrists into the mattress and feel Armie push back, then give in.

He settles for kissing him, pressing his lips firmly against Armie's partially opens mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and spice and morning. 

Timmy pulls back and slides out from under Armie. Looks around and finds Armie's t-shirt on the floor. Slips it over his head and pulls the collar up to his nose. It doesn't smell like cigarettes. Smells more like deodorant and detergent. 

By the time he turns back, Armie has spread himself across the bed and it's just like the first time, except he's wearing boxers. This time, Timmy knows exactly what he wants to poke. 

But, he doesn't poke. He steps closer and slides his hand up the back of Armie's leg. Slips his fingers under the boxers and lets them run along the seam where his ass meets his thigh. Wonders, briefly, if he dares to go any higher. Wishes Armie had woken up first. Wants to tell Armie that this is something he's into, something he'd like to wake up to. Armie's fingers in him, the weight of his body holding him down. His body, weak with sleep, pliable and ready for Armie to take. 

It's time to make breakfast. Timmy withdraws his hand; brings it to his lips. 

Armie looks like he enjoys waffles. And he should probably eat before he heads out for the day.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic has gotten away from me. in a good way. i think. who knows. chapter counts are stupid.

Timmy is out of syrup.

He doesn't even eat syrup, but "waffle iron" is listed under amenities on the apartment's listing, so he stocks the fridge with syrup. The syrup is the main reason he puts contact paper on the shelves; guests never wipe the bottle down before putting it back.

(If they even put it back. Really, some people are slobs.)

"Shit," he hisses. The batter is made, the waffle iron is hot. "Shit," he repeats and rolls his eyes. He grabs his keys, wallet. Slips his shoes on and--

"You see, you can't really dick and ditch when it's your apartment," Armie says as he walks into the kitchen. He's just wearing boxers and when he yawns and stretches, Timmy slows down. Watches.

"I'm out of syrup," Timmy finally says when Armie's arms are lowered and he leans down. Presses his elbows onto the counter. Folds his hands and looks at Timmy expectantly. "So, I'm going to get some. It's just like a block away and--"

"I don't need syrup," Armie says.

Timmy gestures at the waffle iron. Wants to say, _Don't you see it? Don't you get it? Jesus Christ, the waffle iron is hot already, Armie. The batter is made._ He really would like a mimosa. Or something else that passes as a breakfast drink. He's not above putting vodka in his coffee.

Timmy says, "But, I'm making you waffles."

Armie's mouth makes a noncommittal frown that says, 'So what?' And his actual voice says, "Then make me a waffle."

"But--"

"Make me a waffle," Armie says, and he stands up straight and--

And--

"Okay," Timmy says. He drops his keys on the counter, but leaves his wallet in his pocket. "Right, okay."

He turns towards the waffle iron. Takes a deep breath and grabs the batter. "So, what time do you have to leave?"

____

Timmy makes Armie a waffle. He checks it a bit too often so one of the corners looks a bit like a breaded blur. "It's fine," Armie says when Timmy slides the plate in front of him at the dining table. He is still just wearing boxers and his legs are spread and Timmy wants to slide between them and live there. He wants to know what Armie's cock smells like, what it looks like, what it tastes like.

"It all tastes the same," Armie says, and holds his fork in hand. Lets it hover above the waffle for a second while he watches Timmy retreat. Timmy pushes the batter to the side and opens the fridge. Pulls out bacon and eggs and--

"What, I don't get bacon?"

Timmy grabs a bowl from the cupboard. Cracks two eggs into it and tosses the shells into the sink. "You can have bacon," he says. Looks over as Armie takes a bite of waffle. Grins and swallows.

"Okay, this is amazing. Why aren't you--"

"I like eggs," Timmy shrugs. Swipes a hand over his waist and pulls a pan from the cupboard.

"More than waffles?" Armie questions.

Timmy puts the pan over a burner and turns around. "Not really I just--"

"You just?"

Timmy shrugs.

"Come here," Armie says. Pats his left knee. The knee Timmy sat on last night.

"Armie," Timmy says.

Armie doesn't look up from his waffle. "I said come here," he says, so Timmy does. Goes to sit down with his back to Armie; wonders if this is something Armie likes. "No, like this," Armie says, guiding Timmy to sit facing him. "Good," he says once Timmy is settled. Leans in and kisses his cheek.

Just the one word makes Timmy's spine slump and his cock harden. 

"Your waffles are even better than your eggs," Armie says as he reaches behind Timmy, who doesn't know where to look. He focuses on Armie's chin. Worries his lip as he hears the fork clinking against the plate. Stills when Armie brings a bit of waffle to Timmy's lips. Pinched between his thumb and pointer finger. "Who taught you how to cook?"

"My mom," Timmy says, then he opens his mouth. Lets Armie place the waffle square on his tongue. Closes his lip around Armie's finger and inwardly cheers when Armie lets his fingertip rest on Timmy's tongue. "You like that?" Armie asks. It's soft, and Timmy does. He really likes it, but he just shrugs. Waits for Armie to pull his hand back. Run his finger along Timmy's lower lip. Watch the plush skin bounce back up and then move in a wave of chews.

Timmy swallows. "Yeah."

"Good," Armie says, and he reaches behind Timmy to section off another piece. "I told you we don't need syrup."

When he places the next piece in Timmy's mouth, he smiles, so Timmy smiles. Chews and swallows.

____

It's noon.

Timmy stares at the television. It isn't on; he just sat down after distracting himself with laundry and mopping the kitchen. Scrubbed until morning turned to afternoon and he didn't feel bad about having a beer, then. 

It's noon, which means Armie won't be back for a few hours and Timmy is bored. And that's not even the worst part. He's bored _and_ horny and it is the worst. 

(Bored and horny and frustrated because Armie made him eat half the waffle and then asked for bacon. So, Timmy made them bacon. Put it on a plate and when he brought it to the table, Armie asked, "Would you kneel for me if I asked you to?" like he was asking what Timmy was doing for the rest of the day. And Timmy didn't even hesitate. Slid the bacon in front of Armie and then dropped to his knees. Wedged his torso between Armie's thighs and thought, _is this it, can I? Please, let me, please,_ with a side of _is this what he meant? Am I doing this right?_

And Armie hissed, then reached down to squeeze his cock. "Fuck, I like you," he whispered, and ran his hand through Timmy's hair. Gently guided him to relax between Armie's thighs. Rest his cheek against Armie's thigh while Armie continued running his fingers through his hair. Repeated, "I like you a lot."

And then he didn't let Timmy suck his cock. Tightened his grip in Timmy's hair when he tried to inch his way closer and said, "No, no, no.")

Timmy grabs his phone and smirks. 

Timmy: _So, can I suck your cock before you go?_

Armie doesn't respond and Timmy bites his right thumbnail. Turns the television on and watches whatever is playing on HGTV. Slips his thumb between his teeth and wishes it was Armie's. 

Armie: _maybe_

Timmy sits up; holds his phone with both hands and responds. 

Timmy: _How can I make that a yes?_

Armie: _be a good boy_

Timmy lets his head drop back against the couch. Mouths, 'Fuck' and then licks his lips.

Armie: _do you like being my good boy_

Timmy: _Yes._

Armie: _good. did you eat lunch?_

Timmy: _I'm not hungry._

Armie: _k weell you need to eat regularly_  
Armie: _please have a sandwich_

Timmy rolls his head to the side and looks at the kitchen. The counters are clean and he doesn't want to have to scrub them again. He could go out and get some food, but he doesn't really want to move. 

He thinks back to this morning. Thinks about being on his knees in front of Armie. On his knees for Armie. He liked it up until he realized he wasn't getting anything other than a killer head massage, really. It had made his mouth water and his cock throb, but then when Armie said he had to get going, he was just. 

Just. 

"Ugh," he says and stands up. His wallet is still in his pocket, so he grabs his keys and leaves to get a sandwich. 

____

Timmy is waiting for his order when he sends the text. 

He writes and rewrites it. Actually creates a message so he can work and rework how to say it without the fear of accidentally pressing 'Send' too early. Wrote the message in his head, then in a text box, and then finally, once he could actually see one of the workers making his sandwich, attached Armie's name to it. 

Presses send. 

Timmy: _So, I don't think I liked what we did this morning. I didn't dislike it, I just don't know if I want to do that again._

Thinks for a moment, then adds: 

Timmy: _If that's okay?_

His order number is called, so Timmy pushes his phone into his pocket and walks to the counter. Tells the girl to have a good day and then finds a corner in the back. Unwraps his sandwich to see that they didn't go light on the lettuce like he asked and they definitely didn't give him any sprouts. He sighs and looks up towards the line of people waiting for their food. "Whatever," he murmurs while tossing lettuce to the side. 

He feels his phone vibrate so he pulls it out. 

Armie is calling. 

"I thought you were busy this morning," Timmy answers. 

"I am," he says, and there's traffic in background. "But, I wanted to talk to you." 

And this is it. Armie's cancelling their early dinner plans. Telling him he won't be coming back next weekend. Or, if he comes back, he'll find someplace else to stay. Someone else to fuck and just the _idea_ of someone else putting their mouth on Armie makes Timmy's throat go dry, makes his legs actually weak. "I'm sorry," he rushes. "I shouldn't have sent you that text."

"Timmy, I'm glad you sent the text. I only wish you'd told me this morning that you didn't like that. I want you to tell me what you like, but more than that, I need you to tell me when you aren't into something, okay?"

Timmy stares at his sandwich. He's suddenly famished. "I didn't hate it," he admits. 

"Well, what didn't you like about it?" And then, Armie's voice is muffled like he's simultaneously whispering and covering his mouth. "Is it because you wanted me in your mouth? Because, if it's getting to be too much, we can--"

"No," Timmy cuts him off. "I mean, yeah. I'd like that but."

But. 

God, he wants that so much and he hopes it doesn't make Armie think less of him. Because Timmy loves sucking cock. Loves having that control over someone and being able to start and stop when he wants and give, give, give but also take. Force someone to be at his mercy. Even when someone is an asshole, even when it's all too much, he feels in control. 

But with Armie, it's even more. He doesn't want to suck his cock to try and get some sort of power over him. He just wants to make him feel good, make his eyes roll back in his head and lose some sort of control. He's been so sure footed, so poised, so _Armie_ and Timmy wants to peel that back. Even the thinnest of layers. He wants to know what Armie sounds like when he's off balance. 

"Timmy?"

"Sorry," Timmy says. Blushes, and it's his turn to muffle his voice. "I like that you're making me wait." 

There's a long pause. Long enough for Timmy to take a bite of his sandwich, chew. Swallow. Finally, Armie's voice is back and it's firm, but quiet. "Well, I don't like having to make you wait, but when you act like a little brat, texting me dirty things when you know I am busy, I have to punish you."

Timmy squirms in his seat. "I'm in public, Armie." 

There's a sharp laugh, but it's not cruel. "Oh?" There is no background noise and Timmy wonders where Armie is. Did he sneak away? Lock himself into a bathroom to talk to Timmy? Take time out of his day to talk Timmy through this? "Does your pretty cock like when I call you a brat? Or is it the idea of being punished?"

"Armie," Timmy gasps and he looks around. No one seems to be looking, so he reaches down and presses his palm against his cock. Tries to will it away, to think about anything but Armie's voice. Knows he should hang up and text Armie that that was not okay, that he can't just _do_ that, that-- "Both." 

"Fuck, Tim." Armie clears his throat, but he doesn't speak.

Timmy takes another bite of his sandwich. Says, "I'm eating like you told me to. A sandwich, even." 

"Thank you," Armie says and he sounds a bit out of breath. "Timmy, I have to go. But, I'm going to text you okay?" There's background noise again. 

"Wait," Timmy says quickly. His cock is hard and that's fine _now_ but he doesn't know how he's going to make it home without dying of embarrassment. He really should start wearing something other than sweatpants. "Armie, I'm. I mean, my--"

"I said," Armie says evenly, "That I will text you. And, Timmy, remember you get the final say in everything, okay?" 

"Okay," Timmy says. They say goodbye and he puts his phone on the table, face up. Slowly eats his sandwich and wills his cock to chill the fuck out, but his efforts are fruitless with the residue of Armie's voice in his ears. 

He's almost done when Armie texts him. 

Armie: _i'm sorry that i put you in an uncomfortable position in public. since i appreciate you telling me about this morning, you can jerk off in the bathroom, but only if you explain what you didn't like about this morning so i know how to bebetter for you._  
Armie: _i want to be good for you._

This is not helping Timmy's situation. 

Timmy finishes his sandwich and crumples the wrapper. Wipes his mouth with the napkin and picks his phone up. 

Timmy: _I don't know how to explain it._

Armie: _try_

Timmy: _I guess it felt like you were teasing me._

Armie: _okay. about what?_

Timmy: _Wanting to suck you._

Armie: _would it have been better if id told you you wouldnt be allowed to beforehand?_

Timmy thinks. Tries to put himself back where he was this morning. What if Armie had said, "You aren't getting my cock yet, but would you kneel for me?" instead of just asking if he'd kneel? What if--

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ Timmy fidgets again and he knows he's just being sensitive, but he feels like everyone in the room can sense how hard he is. Can smell his cock leaking, dampening his boxers. Threatening to make a wet spot on his sweatpants. _Fuck, I need to go to the bathroom. Now._

\--he'd said, "You're being a bit of a brat so you don't deserve my cock in your throat, but would you kneel for me anyways?"

Timmy: _Yes._

God, yes. _Fuck._ Timmy is just trying to die of embarrassment in the middle of this stupid sandwich shop, because _what if_ eventually that meant Armie would say, "You're being such a good boy today, Timmy. Would you please suck my cock? 

Armie: _thank you for telling me._

Timmy looks down and whines when he sees there's the tiniest of damp spots seeping through this sweatpants. Hopefully, it looks like some oil from his sandwich dripped onto his lap. He grabs his trash and phone. Throws the trash away on the way to the bathroom; keeps his head down the entire way and prays to god no one is paying attention to him. Even the brush of his boxers against his cock feels electric right now. 

He opens the door and slams it shut behind himself. Turns the lock and presses his back against his, texting quickly with one hand while pushing his sweatpants and boxers down with the other. His hand hovers over his cock as he presses send. 

Timmy: _Armie, please, can I jerk off now?_

Armie: _of course but be quiet. let me know when you're done._

And Timmy might as well just start the text now because the moment his hand is on his cock, his shoulders are slumping and he's coming. His entire body goes tight, tight, _tight_ and then--

"Fuck," he breathes out and looks down. Thankful his come landed on his hand, the floor. Takes a few deep breaths; realizes that there had been a tension in his temples all morning that seems to be gone now. 

He starts to text Armie to let him know he came in about three and a half seconds, but when he looks down, he thinks--hopes?--that Armie might enjoy the view. His still semi-hard cock in his come splattered hand. The tiled floor that he got dirty. 

Timmy takes a picture and is about to attach it to the message when he remembers, "when you act like a little brat, texting me dirty things when you know I am busy, I have to punish you." 

He deletes the picture from the message. 

Timmy: _I came._

Armie: _were you quiet?_

Timmy: _I think so._

Armie: _good. i'll see you in a few hours._

Timmy doesn't know how long he's been in the bathroom. It can't be more than a few minutes, but he quickly grabs some paper towels. Cleans himself up, then the floor. He looks at the picture one last time. Thinks about deleting it, but wonders if Armie would want to see it at all. Remembers how much Armie wanted to Skype him, how interested he was in Timmy's Instagram. 

He keeps the picture. He's got an idea. 

When he gets back to the apartment, he opens the fridge. Eyes a beer but then closes the fridge and goes to his bedroom. Pulls out his phone and clicks on the Instagram icon. Presses "Add Account" and gets to work.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i didn't want to go MONTHS (wtf) before updating this again. so here: have this before the angst happens. 
> 
> and thanksthanksthanks for all your kind words. i love you all.

Armie doesn't knock.

It doesn't bother Timmy. In fact, it makes him happy to hear the doorknob rattle, then the immediate grate of a key slipping into the lock. Makes him happy that Armie doesn't feel the need to knock, to ask for permission to come in, to ask Timmy if it's okay. Because it is. It always is. 

"Timmy," Armie says, immediately. Slams the door and takes two steps to stand in the kitchen. Timmy focuses on a splotch of waffle batter that's stuck to the counter. He missed it earlier. 

"Yeah," he says, throwing the words over his shoulder in a move he hopes seems nonchalant. Like he hasn't been trying to make himself look busy for the last half hour, his nerves a mess as he ponders, _Will he like it? Will he think it's trashy? Will he think I'm made for a cock, that I'm just another slut, that I'm something to be--stop. Stop. STOP._

It's been a long day. 

"I told you I was busy today," Armie says, and his voice is playful. Light. Timmy licks his lips and drops the sponge. He doesn't turn around. Settles his palms against the edge of the counter. "I told you that I had something I needed to do."

And then Armie is behind him. Not pressing against him, but present. Places his hands on the outskirts of Timmy's body and hovers his lips behind his ears. "Oh," Timmy responds. Smirks. 

"Timmy," Armie says. Stands up and Timmy wants to look back, but he doesn't. "I'm very happy about this afternoon."

"Even if I distracted you?" 

Armie laughs. "I shouldn't tell you this, but especially since you distracted me." And then he clamps his hands on Timmy's hips. Leans down to kiss the back of his neck, his spine. Lowers himself to the ground. Hooks his thumbs on the waistband of Timmy's sweatpants and pulls them down as well. Places a kiss against the final nub of his spine before the swell of his ass. 

Timmy spreads his legs as far as his sweatpants, stretched across the middle of his thighs, allow him. Leans over the counter until his cheek is against the cool granite. "I might have been loud. In the bathroom," he lies. Braces himself.

It's not a spank but it's definitely not an accident when Armie's palm comes in contact with Timmy's ass. First, a hand on the right. Then on the left. And then, Armie pulls him apart and lets Timmy feel his tongue over the back of his balls, his asshole, the small of his back. "I specifically told you to be quiet," Armie says before flicking his tongue over Timmy's hole. Spitting against him and then pressing a finger to him. "This okay?"

Timmy nods, his sweaty palms slick against the edge of the counter. "Yeah," he says when he really wants to say, 'No, it's not okay. I need more, I need all of you, I need you to need all of me, too.'

"Really?" Armie asks, and Timmy knows he's teasing. Knows he's just dying for Timmy to beg.

So, Timmy gives in. Spreads his legs a bit wider, presses his weight harder into the counter. Says, "Please, please," and is rewarded with Armie pushing his broad tongue into his ass. He reaches back to hold himself open for Armie; is surprised when Armie takes this chance to slide his hands down the backs of Timmy's thighs. Massage the muscles before slapping him, softly, so fucking softly, on the side of the thigh. "Please," Timmy hisses.

And he doesn't know what he's begging for, but he's pressing his ass against Armie's face and rocking forward against the hard edge of the dishwasher. Saying, "Please, please, Armie," again and hoping Armie knows what he wants.

Armie pulls back enough to say, "No," then thrusts his tongue into him once, twice before sitting back. And Timmy knows Armie won't let this go too far. Won't spank him until his ass is sore, until he can't sit for the next two days, can't look at himself in the mirror. He said, 'No,' and lets his hands roam over Timmy's ass for a moment before demanding, "Touch yourself." Replaces Timmy's hands with his own to hold him open and smiles against the cusp of his ass when Timmy doesn't hesitate to ask, "Where?" Just slides a hand to his hole and presses two fingers in. "You're perfect," he whispers.

"I thought I was a distraction," Timmy quips. He's expecting a light slap, but he gets teeth, sharp on the side of his left ass cheek. Then Armie's tongue, soothing the skin before moving to lick around Timmy's fingers. Try to press inside with them, but settling for massaging Timmy's rim. Encouraging him to push and pull, press and play. 

The slide is rough, but Timmy speeds up. Asks, "Can I please--"

"No," Armie says before Timmy can ask. And then he does slap Timmy's ass, clearly targeting the bite mark. Timmy can't wait to turn around and try to find it in the mirror later. Later, when Armie is gone. When Armie is on the plane, Timmy can press his fingers into the toothy bruise and--and--

_That would make for a good update,_ Timmy reminds himself. 

"You said you were loud," Armie says. "Did people hear you? Did people hear you jerking off in the bathroom?" He presses his lips against the bite and then stands up. Timmy hears his zipper, hears the rustle of fabric as Armie unzips and pushes his pants down. He squeezes his eyes shut and knows he's not supposed to turn around, but he wants to, god, he needs to. He adds a third finger. 

"Maybe," Timmy says. Lies again, "Probably."

"Are you just trying to get me to punish you?" Armie asks, and then his cock--fuck--is pushing against the bite mark. He slaps against it once, twice, then steps back. Timmy hears him spit, then hears the distinct sound of Armie jerking off and he wants to offer. Wants to beg, wants to plead, wants to take, take, take. "Because I can do that if you ask nicely."

Timmy gasps and pulls his fingers out. Knows he's not stretched enough--not nearly enough if the imprint of Armie's cock on his ass cheek is any indication--and says, "I want everything." 

Armie laughs. Leans over to kiss the space between Timmys shoulder blades and says, "Eventually." Presses his cock between Timmy's ass cheeks and just holds it there. Lets Timmy feel his girth and heat, his want. "But, we're not there." 

"We're not?" Timmy asks and as he moves to look back at Armie, a hand cups the back of his neck, presses his cheek into the counter. 

"Not yet." 

Timmy sighs, and he knows it's petulant, knows _he's_ to blame. He presses back against Armie's hand like he's begging to be restrained. Groans when Armie relents. "Armie," he says. 

"Timmy." 

He gives in and tucks his arms under his head. Hides his face in the cave created by elbows and thin biceps. Admits, "I was quiet." 

He hears Armie spit and then the slick slide of hand on cock right before Armie says, "I know. I knew you'd be a good boy and wouldn't let anyone hear you." Pauses for a moment. Slaps his cock against Timmy's ass. "I bet they knew what you were doing though. You couldn't hide anything in these sweatpants, could you? They had to have known when you--"

"Armie," Timmy says, and he's pressing up against the counter. Resting on one arm while he reaches down to wrap a hand around his cock. Doesn't dare do more than hold himself. "Can I--"

"Yeah," Armie says and he sounds flustered. His movements seem frantic and then Timmy feels it. He isn't expecting it, so he jerks into his fist, against the dishwasher. His arm buckles and he gasps as Armie's come stripes his ass, his hole, the backs of his thighs. "Fuck," Armie whispers. "I didn't mean to--"

"Please can I come," Timmy asks, begs, needs. Maybe (probably) tries to change the subject because he can hear shock in Armie's voice. Hear that he's been knocked off balance and wants to put him right. Stand him back up straight. 

Timmy presses down on the counter so he can lift his ass for Armie's view and hopes that's enough. "Please, Armie, I need to, I was so good today. I promise, I will be good tonight at dinner and--"

He hears Armie's zipper. Wants to groan with impatience--with regret of not just looking back and taking a peek no matter what his punishment would have been--but instead drops his aching cock. Reaches back to spread himself. "Timmy," Armie chuckles, and he sounds steady. "You are really something." 

"Please," Timmy whispers. Is rewarded with Armie's hands massaging his ass, swatting Timmy's hands away and seeming to test how much of Timmy he can fit in his palms. 

Armie slides his fingers across Timmy's hole. Asks, "Do you want my mouth here," and then wraps his other arm around Timmy's body to trail a finger along the side of his cock. "Or here?" 

And as much as Timmy wants to press back against the fingers toying with his ass, his body makes the decision by bucking forward. He tries to be neutral. "I want what you want."

"Okay," Armie says and then he's turning Timmy around. Wrapping his hands around Timmy's waist and lifting him onto the counter. Grasping his cock and leaning in to kiss Timmy's cheek. "Have you liked all of this so far?" he asks, his voice low, distant like an aside. Timmy's response is a nod; he tries to turn his face enough to press his lips against Armie's, but Armie reaches up and holds him in place by the jaw. Doesn't allow a distraction. 

"Yes," Timmy says. Swallows and relaxes when Armie's hand on his jaw slides down to his throat. "I've loved everything."

Armie grins and rewards him with a quick kiss before moving his hands to Timmy's thighs. Ducks his head down and sucks Timmy's cock into his mouth. 

When he comes, Timmy isn't even thinking about how he'll need to clean the counter again. 

____

Timmy's getting out of the shower when Armie asks. 

(Getting out of the shower because, afterwards, Timmy had hopped down from the counter. Looked at the sweat and come on the counter and then asked Armie, "Are we going to dinner?" 

And Armie laughed. Said, "Dinner can wait until you've showered."

Timmy had blinked at him. Hoped Armie realized that he would go to dinner covered in their filth and his come. That he would if Armie just told him to pull his pants up and grab his keys. 

Realized Armie understood perfectly what Timmy was getting at when Armie grabbed his jaw and brought their faces close, close, too close. "Go shower. I'll get you clean clothes." But then he kissed Timmy with too much (just enough) tongue and Timmy took that to mean, 'Not the right time.'

So he showered.)

"Hey, is it alright if I leave my bag here?" 

Timmy tucks his towel around his waist. Looks at the bed where Armie is sprawled, looking at his phone. A folded pair of jeans and a t-shirt are on the corner of the mattress. Red briefs. Timmy cleans some water out of his ear with his pinky. 

Armie looks over. "I mean, I'm going to be back next week and I," he laughs and licks his lips. "I assume you'll do laundry. Do you mind doing some of mine?"

And Timmy blushes. Teases, "I'll even make sure to clean out your pockets."

____

At dinner, Timmy is _good_. He lets Armie open the door for him and says "Thank you," when Armie lets him choose his seat first. He orders a Diet Coke even though Armie orders wine and doesn't pick the most expensive item on the menu, even though he knows Armie can afford it. 

Under the table, he tucks his left foot against Armie's right and while they wait for their appetizer, he holds Armie's hand in the middle of the table. 

Not once does he think about where Armie was this morning because right now, Armie is with him. Buttering a piece of bread and reaching across the table to offer it to Timmy. 

And Timmy takes it. He takes a bit and hums around it. Chews, swallows. "I have to meet with a new client tomorrow," he says. 

"Yeah?" Armie takes the second bite of the bread. His bite is much larger. "Any idea what they're like?"

Timmy shrugs and slouches forward. Rests his elbows on the table and his chin in his palms. "Not really. Her e-mails have been properly formatted, so that's promising."

"Properly formatted?" Armie asks. 

Timmy nods. "You know, like an actual letter. Capitals where capitals should be. An actual greeting. Introduction. Salutation." 

Armie laughs. 

"What?"

Armie shrugs. "You're just very particular about e-mails, I guess." Armie finishes the piece of bread and picks up another. Looks at Timmy who nods. "You seem very particular about a lot of things." He butters the bread and, this time, puts it on the small plate in front of Timmy. "It makes me a bit nervous, honestly."

"Nervous?" 

Armie nods. "I mean, your sock drawer is more organized than my entire life." He butters his own piece of bread and takes a bite. Chews, then shoves the food to the side of this mouth. Says, "Is that okay? That I'm a bit messy?"

Timmy reaches across the table to swipe a bread crumb from Armie's lip. "Yeah. I think I can manage." 

___

Timmy is _good_ so he's half expecting it when Armie pays their bill and asks the waitress where the bathroom is. Says, "My flight is in a few hours," like she cares. Excuses himself, then trails his hand along Timmy's wrist, his shoulders, his jaw as he walks by. 

So, naturally, Timmy follows. 

Naturally, Timmy follows and finds himself standing in a handicap stall with Armie, wetting his lips and waiting. 

"You've been so good, Timmy," Armie assures him. Unbuttons his pants and pushes them–along with his boxers and any sense of dignity Timmy might have–down a few inches, revealing just the base of his cock and jesus christ it’s thick. Timmy doesn’t need to be told; he drops to his knees and who cares if the bathroom floor hasn’t been mopped in weeks, he just needs to get his mouth on that cock because he wants to know if he can even stretch his mouth around it. He presses in close, his nose nestled in the coarse, dark blond hair while his tongue presses flat against the base of Armie’s broad cock. His hands scramble for Armie’s pants, but they’re slapped away; gathered in Armie’s left hand and held captive.

“Stop being so greedy,” Armie says. Hooks his hand under Timmy’s right armpit and yanks him up for a kiss. Says, "Next weekend," like a promise, like a goal.

____

Armie takes an Uber to the airport and Timmy walks home. His cock is heavy and he's glad Armie picked jeans. A restaurant that didn't seem sweatpants friendly. He thinks about going home and unzipping Armie's suitcase. Picking through what's clean and what's dirty. Deciding to wash it all. Dry it and fold it and pack it away in the suitcase in a way that proves there is room for more. So much more. 

___

Timmy waits until he knows the plane is in the air before he texts.

Timmy: _You should get an instagram and follow goodboytimmy95_

Waits a few minutes. Contemplates. Then decides on sending another text. 

Timmy: _Miss you already._

Then he goes to unpack Armie's bag.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise i'm trying to update regularly. it just isn't happening.

Timmy startles awake when the notification comes. 

He adds Armie. 

It's early. Or late. That time of night and day when you aren't sure which it should be. What you want it to be. 

Armie: _you're fucking filthy and i love it_  
Armie: _fuck timmy._  
Armie: _fucck_  
Armie: _can anyone else see these or are the just for me?_  
Armie: _jesus CHRIST_

Timmy sleepily smirks at his phone. Turns it off and pushes it aside so he can hug his pillow to his chest. Curls into a ball and falls back asleep.  
____

There are times when Timmy stops.

When he stops to eat cereal in his boxers on the couch while staring at a blank television set and in the way back of his mind are memories of college. Of classes he has never used information from and people he never bothered to keep up with. In the way back are men he's met at clubs and the ones he's brought home or been brought to the home of. Nestled next to stupid things he's said or done that he can't let go.

But he doesn't think about them; not in these moments. He just sits. He hasn't done this in a while, but when he woke up, his spine felt loose and his thoughts seemed clear.

Timmy scoops another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. Checks his phone. 

Armie: _you awake yet_  
Armie: _timmy_

Timmy puts his phone down and smiles.  
____

Timmy steps out of the shower. Dries his hair. Runs the towel over his body. Drops it to the ground and looks in the mirror.

He flexes at first, but then relaxes. Corrects his posture. Scans his shoulders, his arms, his belly. Sucks in. Relaxes again. Turns to the side and his skin pulls against his ribs and the cusp of his ass is visible in the mirror and--

and _fuck_ there is the bite mark. Angry looking teeth imprints that make his cock heavy. That make him turn a bit more and stand on his tiptoes to get his whole ass in the mirror and--

and--

and, okay. Maybe he gets it. He bites his lip and then opens the door. Runs to the kitchen to grab his phone. Turns again and doesn't even bother trying to hide the fact that he's literally sucking on his lower lip and making, "Please fuck me," eyes at the mirror while he tries to showcase his ass and those god damn teeth imprints that are slight--heavy and hard and dark to his eyes, but barely even a bruise--but _so much_.

He opens up Instagram. Adds the picture. 

Texts Armie.

Timmy: _Good morning!_  
____

Armie doesn't respond immediately and Timmy reminds himself that Armie has a life. He has a job and kids. He definitely has a gym membership or goes running or does _something_ active on a regular basis. The point is that Armie has shit going on that doesn't involve Timmy. And Timmy knows this, but he still hates it. Hates that Armie isn't checking his phone right this minute, that he doesn't respond immediately, that he doesn't _care_ as much. 

No, he doesn't hate that. Not exactly. Timmy hates that all he has to look forward to are weekends. 

It's a half hour before Armie responds. 

Armie: _timmy_

Timmy: _Do you like it? It's just for you._  
Timmy: _Only you can see it._  
Timmy: _This way I don't have to distract when you when you're busy._

He sounds desperate. Wishes he could delete that. 

Timmy bites the edge of this thumb. Opens Instagram and taps his way to the account that is just for Armie. 

Jesus, he doesn't just sound desperate. He looks the part, too. 

There are only three pictures. The one from the sandwich shop and the one in the bathroom are bookends to one he awkwardly took in the bedroom. He rolls his eyes remembering how he'd set a timer. A timer! And shoved his pants down to his thighs. Reached back to spread himself a bit. Just enough, he'd thought at the time. And then awkwardly held the phone and watched the timer count down and--

Fuck, he looks stupid. He _is_ stupid. Spreading himself, showing himself, revealing himself for some guy he barely knows. It's so fucking typical. Giving himself to someone without them asking for it. Without them wanting it. 

There are times when Timmy stops, and there are times he buries himself in his own brain. Worries that what he has become is who he will be his entire life. That the fears he has now are the fears that will plague him for decades. That he won't move on from that self doubt, that he won't move on from the mistakes he's made. The mistakes he will make. Mistakes he is currently making, again and again and aga--

Armie: _you're perfect. i hope you realize that._  
Armie: _and im not just saying it to be nice_  
Armie: _or to get more pictures_  
Armie: _call me tonight?_

Timmy exhales. Clutches his phone to his chest.

Eventually breathes and blinks. Licks his lips. 

Timmy: _Of course._  
_____

Timmy unzips Armie's bag. Tosses his clothes into the laundry basket that is already filled with Timmy's clothes and towels. He thinks some of it might be clean, but he doesn't care. The idea of Armie wearing clothes that smell like Timmy's detergent? That have shared the same washer with his underwear, his sweatpants, his socks?

Fuck. 

He checks Armie's pockets. Pulls out receipts, a pen, a paperclip. Puts them in a pile on the edge of the counter. 

He mixes their clothes together in the basket. Carries it to the laundry room and starts a load.  
_____

Timmy waits to call. He waits until he's gone out for dinner with Saoirse.

(And she had _questions_ for him. _When can I meet Armie? What is he visiting for? Why won't he tell you? Don't you think that's a bit weird? You have a right to know where he disappears to when he visits you. Tell me everything. Why are you smirking at your phone. Let me see, let me see, let me see. Jesus, Timmy. I don't even want to know what he's talking about here._ )

Until they come back to his place and Saoirse watches him fold the laundry basket of clothes. Until he's stood at the fridge and decided on Powerade instead of beer. Offers one of the bottles to her before asking, "Do you mind if I call--"

She takes the bottle of blue liquid and rolls her eyes. "Keep it in your pants, though," she says. Starts wandering around the apartment. Taking books off the shelf and skimming through them, even though she's probably read them all. 

Armie picks up on the first ring. Says, "Hey, you," and Timmy needs to sit down. He does, in the kitchen. Sits on a stool and rests his elbow on the counter. His chin on his palm. 

"Hi," he says. Hopes Armie can't hear the smile on his lips, the smile that formed when Armie answered so quickly. "What's up?"

Armie gives a vague response about work. Timmy still doesn't really know what Armie does. Who he works for. He doesn't really care; whatever Armie does seems important. The kind of important where even he might not really know what he's doing. The kind of important that walks fast and gets their shoes shined while they're talking nonsense on the phone. 

"Cool," Timmy says. Wants to ask if the Instagram was too much, but he looks up and can tell Saoirse is listening. She's not very good at looking interested in the cooking show that she's turned on. He tells Armie about dinner. About the client he met with this morning who he's met with three times before and they still can't set a date. They can't even pick a season. 

Mentions that he just folded his laundry. 

There's a pause and Timmy swears he can hear Armie's knuckles crack. Maybe it's his neck. "You don't have to do my laundry," Armie spits out. "I hope you don't think I expect you to--"

"I don't mind doing your laundry," Timmy says, and he doesn't. Likes the idea of Armie's clothes smelling like him. He cradles the phone between his shoulder and ear. 

"I know you don't mind. But, I don't want you to think this is," he pauses and it makes Timmy's spine stiffen. He stares at the wall. This is what? A relationship? Something domestic and solid? Something that Timmy can depend on and someone he can do nice things for just because he wants to?

"Armie, it's fine, I--"

Armie cuts him off, his voice a little louder than before. A way of saying, 'Shut up and listen,' without being an asshole. "I want you to know that I'd do your laundry. If you were visiting me." 

Timmy exhales. "Is this about the laundry or..." He lets his voice trail off. 

"Or," Armie answers. Solid and simple. 

Timmy grins and looks over at Saoirse who is leaning her head over the back of the couch. Hair falling down in a slightly chaotic waterfall while she blatantly stares. He rolls his eyes at her then looks away. Stares at the items he'd taken out of Armie's pockets; he'd left them on the edge of the counter. Hadn't bothered to sort them to recycling or trash. "Well, then I guess I'd let you do my laundry." 

In the distance, he hears Saoirse whisper, "You are so weird." Catches a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye as she slides off the couch and walks towards the kitchen. Mouths, "Garbage" at her when she gestures at Armie's pocket trash. She nods and puts her Powerade down. Pulls the pen out and tucks it behind her ear. Puts the paperclip in her pocket. She's such a hoarder; it makes Timmy's arms itch. 

He turns on the stool, putting his back to her like it will give him some sort of privacy. "So, ugh," he swallows. "Did you like your surprise?"

Armie laughs. "Did I _like_ my surprise?" Lowers his voice and admits, "Twice, actually." 

Timmy's cheeks burn when he realizes what Armie means. His stomach feels like a grease fire being tossed in a tub of water. "Instagram only lets you like things once," he jokes. It's half-assed, but he can't think of anything clever. Tugs on the hem of his shirt. Jumps when the door to the garbage slams shut, but doesn't turn around. 

"I liked it once when I first saw it," Armie says slowly. Teasingly. "And then, I liked it again on my lunch break. In my office. Can you imagine if someone had come in and seen that on my screen? Seen you presenting yourself like such a good--"

"Armie," Timmy says, his voice the loud one right now. He slides off the stool and turns to the counter. Presses his hardening cock against the hard wood and counts down from five. Relaxes. "I wish I could talk longer, but my friend is here." 

Armie chuckles. "Okay, well can I text you later?"

"You can text me now," Timmy says, even though it's a terrible idea. He just wants to devour everything Armie will give him. Wants to take it all until he is drowning, until he is suffocating. 

"Will do. Have fun with your friend, Timmy. I miss you." 

Timmy feels dumb repeating the sentiment out loud with Saoirse feet away. "Talk to you later, Armie." 

He hangs up and immediately, Saoirse slaps a receipt in front of him. "You didn't tell me you tried out the new bakery," she says. Reaches across the counter and shoves his shoulder. "I've been dying to go."

He looks down at the receipt; he doesn't recognize the bird logo at the top and a quick scan of the address tells him he has definitely not met a client there. "He must have gone there without me," he says. Picks it up. One black coffee, one cranberry muffin. He checks the time and, sure enough, it would have been when Armie was busy doing whatever it is that he does when he's in town. 

(Timmy promises himself he'll as this weekend. That he'll push the topic, demand an answer.) 

Trying out new bakeries, apparently. 

"Dumb," she says. "It's supposed to be really good." 

He shrugs and shoves the receipt in his pocket. "Well let's go tomorrow or something. Want to help me narrow down photographers?"

She does. She always does.  
_____

Armie doesn't text right away. Doesn't text until Saoirse is gone and Timmy is reading in bed. 

Armie: _do you take requests ;)_

Timmy: _For a fee._

Armie: _how much for a video?_  
Armie: _can you post videoson instagram?_

Timmy rolls his eyes. 

Timmy: _Yes, Armie._

Armie: _k how much for a video of your fignering yourself_

Timmy stares at the ceiling. Looks over at the mirror in the corner of his room. Feels that grease fire spreading from his stomach to his fingers, his toes. 

Armie: _like just one finger though. maybe two_

Timmy snorts. 

Timmy: _One finger would fall under the free trial category._

Armie: _what about two?_

Timmy thinks. Knows this is all a joke, but wonders if he could get something out of it anyways. 

Timmy: _In exchange for two fingers, you'd need to promise to fuck my mouth this weekend._

Armie: _Deal._

Timmy grins at the prospect. Fully smiles at their deal. Drops his phone to the mattress and starts toeing off his socks, pulling off his pants. He gets up and grabs the mirror. Pulls it closer to the bed and tries to figure out the logistics of this. 

His phone lights up. 

Armie: _you don't have to_  
Armie: _you don't hav eto do any of this if you don't want to timmy_

Timmy snatches his phone up. Takes a selfie of himself in the mirror, thumb hooked on the waistband of his briefs. Pulling them down enough to reveal his hipbone. A smattering of hair. The base of his cock. 

Sends it without thinking twice. 

Timmy: _I want to be good for you, though, Armie._  
Timmy: _I can be so good._

He pulls his briefs off and tosses them towards the hamper. He can be the best Armie's ever had. Because he wants to be.

**Author's Note:**

> bartbarthelme on tumblr.


End file.
